


Caught In The Crossfire

by catstrophysics



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (that's sorta the guiding plot here), Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Grantaire, Everyone Is Gay, Gay Enjolras, Hijinks & Shenanigans, History Class, Les Amis de l'ABC Shenanigans, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sexual Tension, background Courferre, debates, Éponine and R are best friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23292466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catstrophysics/pseuds/catstrophysics
Summary: Grantaire's history teacher assigns a "crossfire debate" project in history class and assigns pairs randomly. Just his luck, he gets paired with Enjolras, the compelling and ridiculously intelligent blond he's had a thing for for a long time and who he accidentally pissed off months ago. Will they be able to work together to do well in the debate? And does Enjolras still hold what happened against him, or is there something different going on?
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 322
Kudos: 120





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _“It is better to debate a question without settling it than to settle a question without debating it.”_  
>  ~Joseph Joubert.
> 
> For M, who talked me into writing exR for the first time (this time).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Mabeuf doesn't know what he's started by assigning _this_ project with _these_ groups... and Grantaire doesn't know exactly what he's gotten into now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!

The first day back to school after spring break was always heavy, weighed down by a week of lethargy, and first period had a habit of being exponentially worse. 

“Cacophonous” was one simple way to describe the hallway that morning, though more eloquently the slamming of locker doors rang out like shots and the squeals of freshmen who hadn’t seen each other in a week tore the air like death-knell screams. It was a battlefield, in short, and Grantaire was no soldier. 

Enjolras, however, was a warrior, and he wove deftly through the throng to the first class of the day, red sweatshirt standing out amongst the crowd in shades of navy and grey until he disappeared behind a cluster of basketball players who towered over even him. Grantaire watched him until he couldn’t spot the blond boy in the masses, before he was body-checked into his locker by a bony shoulder. 

“Ow! Ép! What the hell,” he yelped, turning to take a good-natured swing at the girl standing just behind him. 

“You were staring, R,” she said, cocking her head towards the blond head that reappeared at the door of room 178, “and it was obvious.” 

Éponine was scarily good at three things: parkour, knowing things without being told, and using that knowledge to her advantage. It made her a dangerous enemy and a valuable ally, and an incredibly infuriating friend. She’d pegged Grantaire’s adoration of Enjolras in seconds, and now gleefully informed him when his eyes lingered on the boy for a few seconds too long. 

The warning bell rang, and before he had the chance to respond to Éponine she swept away, squashing his beanie further down on his head and disappearing with a whiff of cinnamon chewing gum. Grantaire stumbled his way gracelessly against the tide of bodies flowing down the hallway and smacked into the door of the classroom at full speed. 

The wood was rough against his hand, the lights were too bright against his early-morning eyes, and Enjolras looked far too enthralling through the window for 7:55 on a Monday morning. 

He was deep in conversation with Courfeyrac, who sat backwards in his desk’s chair to lean on Enjolras’s desk, tapping his foot rapidly against the tile floor. Enjolras gestured wildly, the passion in his speech obvious even though Grantaire couldn’t hear a word he was saying, and he smiled to himself quietly as he swung open the door. Nothing better to kick off a Monday than watching the boy in red talk, powerful and competent and everything Grantaire could never hope to be in a thousand lifetimes of trying. He snagged a few words as he passed by, hearing “unjust” and “today’s meeting.” _Right. ABC meeting day._ With a near-imperceptible sigh, he dropped his bag onto a desk in the far corner, sandwiched between Jehan, an overstuffed bookcase, and the shelf of plants Dr. Mabeuf tended to with the same patient enthusiasm he granted everything, and settled in for class. 

“Morning!” chirped Jehan, who was busily sketching something in the margin of their notebook. “How was your break?” 

It was an innocent enough question, and it deserved an innocent enough answer. “Not school, you?” Nothing in-depth, nothing too explicit, nothing that revealed he’d stayed home and painted and drank away his feelings for a week straight. 

“Great! The ABC and I—” they cut themself off, fiddling with the edge of their sweater, but Grantaire nodded impatiently for them to go on, “the ABC and I went to a protest at the Capitol, it was so much fun!” Their voice was cheery and bright enough to match their clothes, floral-print jeans and a peach sweater that draped past their fingertips. It was impossible to be miserable near Jehan, which is why Grantaire sat near them almost as often as he sat near Éponine. 

The bell rang, and the conversations throughout the room dwindled to silence. 

Dr. Mabeuf was a fascinating teacher, when it was all said and done. He knew everything there was to know about American Government and Economics, and considering that was the course he taught, it was fitting. Their lectures made time fly by in the same whirlwind manner as it did when Grantaire stood at an easel, painting for hours compressed into what felt to his heart like seconds. 

If Dr. Mabeuf had one fatal flaw, it was his love of group projects.

“Okay! Welcome back from break, everyone, I hope you had a restful time, and we’re going to jump right in because I’ve got an exciting project to introduce!” The jubilance in his voice fell on flat ears; this wasn’t the first time he’d declared a project _exciting_ and it turned out anything but. “No, really,” he frowned, “this one’s great. I present: the Crossfire Debate!” He clicked the projector remote with a flourish, and a trumpet fanfare and poorly-animated logo popped up. “You like it? I made it myself.” He grinned, and swung himself up onto the table at the front of the room, legs crossed neatly beneath him. “Anyways, the way this works is: you all split into pairs, and then the pairs pair up, so you’re in groups of four. Each group picks a topic, and each pair picks pro or con. Then, you’ve got a couple weeks to prep and practice, and you present—well, debate,” he corrected, with over-exaggerated air-quotes, “in front of the whole class!” 

If room 178 had had any crickets present, this would have been their moment to shine. 

Grantaire let his gaze drift around the room, and it settled on Enjolras in near-record time. He was watching the teacher with rapt attention and not a small amount of annoyance. _Of course, can’t let his grades slip because of a project, can he?_

Dr. Mabeuf remained unfazed by the lack of enthusiasm. “So, I’ll partner you up—” he was cut off by a groan from the edges of the room, but soldiered on. “Now, I’m not a tyrant, you get to pick which pair you’ll debate against. Fair?” The groans fizzled into acquiescing grumbles. “Great, okay,” he began, before pointing out pairs at lightning speed. 

“Éponine and Joly,” he started, and Grantaire’s hope of being paired with his best friend hit his feet. “Bahorel and Jehan,” he continued, “Bossuet and Musichetta,” the pair broke into wide grins, lacing their fingers together. “Combeferre and Courfeyrac, you two’ll do nicely, and that leaves Enjolras and… anyone?” He looked around expectantly. 

“Me.” Grantaire wanted to sink deeper into his denim jacket as he felt Enjolras’s glaringly sharp gaze fall upon him. _Fuck._

Dr. Mabeuf beamed. “Perfect, Grantaire, you’re with Enjolras! Okay, pairs, now choose your opponents, and unfortunately it looks like that’s going to take us to the end of the period so I’ll see you all tomorrow! Homework: think about what topic you want to debate.”

Grantaire chanced a glance at his partner, not knowing what to expect. He barely trusted himself to look at Enjolras on a good day; the boy’s marble-sculpted jaw was sharper than his wit, and he had a reputation for a fiery temper and never suffering fools gladly. And he considered Grantaire a fool of the highest order. 

“Hey! R!” Courfeyrac called, arms tight around Enjolras’s neck as if he’d captured a wild animal, “hope you don’t mind debating against me and ‘Ferre, eh?” He jerked his head at the gangly boy beside him in the sweater and glasses, who smiled shyly at him and then turned his attention back to fixedly watching Courfeyrac. 

The boys’ reputations preceded them: quietly intelligent Combeferre, with his warm sweaters and gentle smile, overbalanced by Courfeyrac’s florid personality and tendency to talk before he thinks. 

“Nah, I don’t mind, but uh,” he stifled a laugh, “I think Enjolras might if you don’t let him breathe soon.” 

He sauntered over to the trio of boys, still not daring to make eye contact with Enjolras, not willing to test his heart’s ability to stay fully in his chest when he did. “Should we, uh, phone numbers? And we should probably pick a topic at some point,” he offered. 

“For sure,” Courfeyrac said, “and you’re lucky. Enjolras has been waiting literal years for the chance to debate a topic of his choosing, and he has an entire notebook full of topics.” He held out his phone expectantly, and Grantaire traded him his own. “I’ll make a groupchat, but, uh, Enj?” 

Enjolras looked up from the spot on the floor he’d been studying. “Hm?” 

“We are _not_ debating gay rights with you.” 

Grantaire was too busy trying not to choke to notice the blush that spread up Enjolras’s face, or hear the quiet “shut up, guys” that was masked under Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s triumphant laughter. 

_This is going to be a long project,_ he thought, as he handed his phone to Enjolras and felt the boy’s fingertips skim over his wrist before flinching away. 

“Should we meet up after school today to talk about the topic?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras’s ferocious glare cut him clear through. 

“Can’t, sorry,” he said, in a tone anything but apologetic. “ABC meeting. Which you would _know_ if—”

Combeferre cleared his throat, and Enjolras lapsed into silence. “Sorry,” he muttered. The trill of the bell rang out, and the din of the class increased as everyone moved to leave. 

“See ya later, Enj!” Courfeyrac called, scooping up his bag and Combeferre’s hand and flying through the door. 

That left Enjolras and Grantaire in the steadily emptying classroom, and Enjolras cleared his throat absently. “So, uh,” he began, then looked at the wall behind Grantaire expectantly, 

“You wanna, meet after your meeting today, maybe? See if Courf and ‘Ferre can make it?” 

“Sure.”

It was perhaps the third-least inspiring conversation to transpire in room 178, and the air hung motionless and silent between them. Grantaire was painfully conscious of how close he was to the other boy, leaning on the edge of his desk, and some traitorous part of his soul willed him to lean even closer or say something, _anything_ , to break the silence. 

He didn’t. 

He wanted to.

Seconds ticked by before Enjolras made to move, citing “physics” as his reason for leaving and departing in a flurry of red fabric and blond hair. 

Grantaire sighed again, slipping into a chair and laying his head down on the cool desk in front of him. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and found himself blindsided, staring at the contact page left open when he last turned it off. His heart kicked into a higher gear as he stared at the name. _Enjolras_ , and what teenager capitalized things anymore? Groaning, he opened his messages and sent off a quick one to Éponine. 

>>you: _ep, we’ve got a problem._

She emphasized it, two white exclamation marks appearing at the edge of the message, and he groaned again. 

>>eponine: _meet me in the chem lab at lunch??_

It was a command, not a question, and he shut off his phone in acknowledgement. 

***

“R, good. What the fuck, man? How’s your luck this bad?” 

“I don’t _know_ , Ep,” Grantaire moaned, sliding vertically down the wall. “I’m so fucked.” 

“You’re so fucked.” 

He shot her a look, searing in its intent but lacking any real power behind it, and she laughed him off. “Hey, at least you get to spend some time with him, unlike—” She cut herself off. “Never mind.” 

Grantaire started, lifting his head from its resting place between his knees to stare levelly at her. “Never mind what, ‘Ponine, you can’t do that to me.” The flush of her cheeks was unnatural, of the sort he’d only ever seen when she was lying about something important. “Ép. Spill.” 

“Unlike me and Marius,” she whispered, settling next to him. “He’s with Cosette, so it doesn’t matter, but it’s still…” she trailed away, and sniffled. “Anyways, that’s irrelevant for now,” she began again, changing the subject with the tone of voice reserved for when she meant business, “and you finally get to spend some time with Enjolras.” 

“I don’t even know if he’s gay, Éponine, you’re getting ahead of everything.” 

“Find out.” That was the curse of having Éponine as your best friend; she was no-nonsense in the most painful of ways. “There’s an ABC meeting after school today, you _know_ this, I’ll come with you and see if anything tips it off. Do you have any clue?” She raised her eyebrows appraisingly at him, the expectation that he had nothing clearly evident in her posture. 

He smiled ever-so-slightly. “Actually, uh, Combeferre said something about not being willing to debate gay rights against us, so that’s, um, something?” he asked hopefully. 

She thumped him on the forehead. “That means he’s gay, idiot, or something, or at least into guys, so go find out for real.” 

_Enjolras’s sexual orientation isn’t the problem here,_ came the thought, sneaking in the back of his skull like a thief. _We both know how he feels about me._

“But Ép, he hates me, you’ve _seen_ how he treats me, and I’m probably the last person he wants to be working on this project with.” The doubt stung even more once he said it aloud, and he winced. “I should get over it.” 

They sat in silence for a few seconds, Éponine considering her next words, before she said, “you don’t _know_ how he feels about you, R. Not for sure. Go to the meeting, okay?” She leaned her head sideways onto his shoulder and sighed. “The project’s due in a little under two weeks, you can endure. I know you can.” She patted him twice on the cheek and moved to stand up. “In the meantime… R, don’t waste this opportunity. Talk to him. I’ll see you at the meeting.” And with that, she was standing, moving away far too quickly, leaving the space beside him friendless. 

He needed to go work out. 

The hallway was gloriously empty, and he slipped into the dance room unnoticed. The familiar scent of chalk and rubber greeted him, twining around his ankles like ballet silks or a friendly cat, and he grinned. He dropped his bag on the first chair he saw, tugging his phone from the side pocket and queueing up his default playlist. 

The opening strains of his favorite aria swirled into his ears, and he took his starting position. This song was achingly familiar, and he smiled unconsciously, letting his eyes slip closed as he raised himself onto his toes. 

Ballet had swam in and out of his life for as long as he could remember, flirting with the idea of running away forever before swooping back in and carrying him away once more. It always came back, though, intoxicating as ever. The scenes from long ago drifted through his mind as he went through the routine that was pure muscle memory. The boys in the gym, laughing at him. The look of disappointment on his dad’s face. His own eyes, younger and rounder and tear-stained, in the filthy bathroom mirror at his last competition ever. 

The song drew to a close and jolted him from his reverie, and he spun to a stop, panting. 

“Fuck anything anyone has ever said,” he announced to the empty room, “ballet is a sport.” 

He turned around, still out of breath, and froze, warm blood thrumming through his veins turning to ice in an instant. 

A flash of blond motion through the door, the end of a ponytail whisking away.

Someone saw. 

Someone saw him dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! It's looking like this fic is going to come out around 12 chapters, so if you liked it make sure to subscribe (and tell me you liked it)! I'm in quarantine right now, so I have a ton of writing time. I'm really looking forward to writing the rest of this! 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr [here](https://catstrophysics.tumblr.com/)! Thanks again for reading, see you next chapter!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire goes to the ABC meeting.

Grantaire’s heart slammed back into rhythm. _Someone saw him._ His thoughts started to spin, fear swirling through his veins, hot and thick and sickening. He wanted to run. To hide. To be anywhere but here, standing in the dance studio, alone now, sweat fresh on his skin. 

He had to get to class, not stand here panicking about who saw him. 

Right? 

The hallway had filled since he last walked it, and tightly-wound knots of students talked amongst themselves in corners and up against the lockers. He was alone in a sea of people, running without moving his feet any faster than he was before. 

_This is just like last time,_ he thought, and the jeering faces of classmates from years past swooped into his head. Cold. Unfeeling. 

The bell rang as he slid into Spanish class, collapsing into the chair between Jehan and Éponine, who were talking animatedly about their favorite show. They stared at him, agape for a split second, and both opened their mouths to ask “What’s wrong?” at the same moment. 

“Please, guys,” he said, words muffled by the sleeve of his jacket, “ _No me preguntan._ ” 

Class should have been interesting; he was fluent in Spanish already, anyways, and spending time with Jehan and Éponine was usually enough to lift his mood, but his thoughts were occupied with the memory of the ponytail disappearing and worry about the ABC meeting after school. 

A knock came at the door, faint but steady, and Sr. Champmathieu gestured for the visitor to enter. 

Headmaster Valjean stepped in, looking slightly abashed to be disturbing class in this manner. “ _Lo siento, Señor, pero tengo un pregunta._ ” He nodded to the hallway, and with a quick command to practice speaking, Sr. Champmathieu followed him out the door. 

Grantaire let his head flop back onto the desk, sighing, and felt Jehan’s hand come to rest on his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles. 

“Someone saw me,” Grantaire said. “Someone saw me dancing in the studio during lunch.” Saying it aloud almost made it worse, but Éponine’s sigh was not one of concern, but of relief. 

“That’s it? R, you’re a lovely dancer, and I’m sure nothing bad will come of it.” To her, this was the end of the matter, and she switched her attention to the worksheet in front of her, eraser end of her pencil settled between her lips as she tried to work out the proper conjugations. 

“Could be bad,” he grumbled petulantly, scooching his chair closer to Jehan. “You don’t know that.” He ignored the chink of hope that Éponine’s dismissal had given him in favor of worrying; his cynical nature didn’t abandon him that easily, after all. 

Sr. Champmathieu pushed the door back open and stepped in, and Grantaire’s mind swung back to worrying about the events of the afternoon.

***

The Friends of the ABC—a social justice club in nature, though not in name—gathered weekly to set out goals for change they wished to accomplish. It was by all means a ragtag assortment of students, and though it had no official leader and operated more like a many-headed hydra, there was no denying that Enjolras’s thoughts held just a bit more sway than the rest.

And he was a fantastic public speaker, a fact Grantaire had forgotten until he walked in, nearly late, to the boy on top of a desk, waving his hands and calling for attention. The room did not fall silent with that, but when Enjolras’s eyes settled on Grantaire, hesitating in the doorway, and he whispered “oh, shit,” the room quieted down in an instant. 

Enjolras jumped down from the table with a _thud_ and immediately began talking. “If you’re just here to mock us again, Grantaire, I recommend you get out, because what you did and said last time was—”

“Unacceptable, I know, Apollo.” He tossed his bag down at the first desk he came to. “Don’t mind me, I won’t say a word, just go about whatever you usually do.” 

He knew he sounded dismissive, knew how harsh the words came out, and yet he didn’t go back, didn’t apologize. Not now. 

Enjolras held his stare for a second longer, apparently weighing if the guidelines of the ABC allowed him to throw Grantaire from the room by force, before sighing, pulling his long hair back into a hasty bun, and beginning his speech. 

“The number of instances of harassment in this school year has done nothing but rise since September,” he began, and the room settled into their chairs to listen. 

Grantaire didn’t pay much attention to what Enjolras was saying, preferring to watch him dance purposefully around the room as he made point after point. The harsh lighting of Mr. Lamarque’s room glinted off his hair, turning it to sunlight in the windowless room, and Grantaire had to stifle a grin. _Apollo_ indeed. 

He was intoxicating to the eyes, and Grantaire nearly forgot his terror about attending as he watched him work. Nearly. Charisma poured from him, gaudy and purposeful, and Grantaire took a moment to wonder if they could win the debate against Courfeyrac and Combeferre with just the beauty of Enjolras. 

_So what if Éponine said he’s “average looking,”_ he thought, _she’s just blind._

“...and every day even more people face this issue amongst our student body, and what has the administration done about this?” He paused for dramatic effect, eyes darting wildly around the room, and then continued. “Nothing!” 

The disgruntled grumbles from the room welled up, and Grantaire found himself choking back laughter. 

All eyes turned to him, and the hot shame started in the pit of his stomach and bubbled up into his chest. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, voice straining against rigid patience he was controlling it with, “do you have something to… add?” A loaded question. One he would prefer to never, ever answer. 

But he couldn’t back down in the face of the challenge, an eternal Icarus. 

He swallowed. “Yeah, actually, what _exactly_ ,” he bit out, “are you going to do about it? Because to me,” he could feel his nerve beginning to falter as the boy’s blindingly bright stare pinned him to the wall like a specimen to study, and he sought out a familiar, loving face. Jehan and Éponine were in the far corner—how did he not see them when he came in?—and their even brown gazes gave him just enough heady courage to go on. “To me, the issue here isn’t stopping the harassment entirely—” the murmurs of disbelief swirled around the room— “It’s making the punishment for any reports clear and sincere. Because really,” he said, and now he was back in his element, now he was just debating, “really, what’ve the administration done so far except a slap on the wrist for the jackasses that try to take advantage of someone? And will any of them ever actually listen unless they know something serious will happen if they don’t?” 

He was standing. When did he start standing? And he had edged closer to Enjolras, who had edged closer in return, and they were eye to eye, and _God,_ were Enjolras’s eyes pretty. 

“So, um,” he finished eloquently, “yeah.” 

He sat back down. 

Enjolras didn’t step back. 

“Thank you for that, Grantaire,” he said at last, and retraced his steps back to the front of the classroom. The heads of the other students swiveled back to front, and Grantaire sought out Éponine’s gaze for comfort. Instead, he caught Courfeyrac’s, who gave him a thumbs-up and a blinding grin, and mouthed “good job” before turning back around to drape himself across Combeferre’s lap. 

The leader in red was talking again, eyes flickering around the room as he made points. To Grantaire’s ever-so-slight joy, he had changed course from prevention to punishment. Mentions of detention, of apologies, of in-school suspension, of extra work, were tossed around by the cluster of students, and Enjolras wrote down notes in his hurried, slanted handwriting on the whiteboard. 

Someone’s watch beeped, and Grantaire watched Feuilly—he thought that was his name, the boy from his math class with the frizzy hair—reach for his digital watch and shut it off with chagrin. 

“That brings us to a close, then,” came Enjolras’s reluctant voice, and he sank down into a squashy black office chair as the room swished into motion, everyone chattering excitedly. “Oh, Courfeyrac, Combeferre,” he cleared his throat, “uh, Grantaire, c’mere?” 

The boys gathered around, Courfeyrac and Combeferre squishing to one side on the desk to allow room for Grantaire. 

“We should probably work on our topic selection tonight, because this is an important project and we need to get the best possible score on it. Does anyone have any ideas?” Enjolras’s voice was brusque as always, hurrying forward over every syllable, but it was calmer now, quieter with an audience of three instead of thirteen. “Anyone other than me, that is,” he tacked on. 

Grantaire raised a hand slowly, watching Enjolras for a response. “Actually, I do?” he said, more of a question than a statement. “The privatization of prisons in the United States is a really important issue right now, and I don’t think any other groups will think of it. Popped into my head earlier today,” he said, and Enjolras’s features didn’t move for a few seconds. 

“I like it,” he said slowly, “I really like it. Courf? ‘Ferre?” he cocked a head at the other two boys, who glanced at each other, grinned, and nodded. “Okay, well, that’s settled, and I have a list of topics to go throw out.” 

“Sorry,” Grantaire blurted, “Do you want to do one of your topics instead?” 

Enjolras laughed, the sweet, soft ringing of deep bells, and it was music to Grantaire’s ears. “It’s alright, really, this topic sounds like a ton of fun.” Combeferre looked at him quizzically, and Enjolras’s eyes widened as he corrected, “Well not _fun_ , I mean, it’s prisons, but, you know.” He cleared his throat. “Good to debate.” 

“So the two sides are pro-privatized prisons and against them, then?” Combeferre asked, absently drawing circles on the back of Courfeyrac’s hand. “Who wants which side?” 

“Con,” Enjolras and Courfeyrac said at the exact same moment, then looked at each other annoyedly. 

“No way am I supporting privatized prisons,” Courfeyrac whined. 

Grantaire dug through his pockets quickly, turning up a scrap of paper, two crumpled-up dollars, a tangled mess of earbuds, and a quarter. “Hey, guys? Flip for it?” 

The quarter was in the air before anyone could respond, and Enjolras called out “heads” just before it clattered against the linoleum. 

Grantaire scooped it up. “Tails.” 

Enjolras groaned, and Courfeyrac celebrated. 

“C’mon, man, tails never fails,” he said, tugging Enjolras’s hair down out of its bun. “And you look so much prettier with your hair down, you know?” 

Grantaire had to choke back the urge to agree verbally, instead cocking an eyebrow at the other boys. “You want to get some work going now, or would we all prefer to wait until class tomorrow to really get started?” 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac glanced at one another, then at Enjolras, before Combeferre spoke. “I’ve really got to get home, and I’m driving Courf, so uh, tomorrow, then?” He looked genuinely apologetic, and Grantaire had the dawning realization that this was a boy he’d actually quite like to be friends with. “R? You good?” 

Grantaire nodded, saying, “Yeah, I’ve got a car, and I should probably get home within the next bit or my mom’ll wonder where I’ve gotten to. Apollo, er, Enjolras, do you have a ride?” 

The boy was intently studying the cords of his sweatshirt, the frayed strings, and looked up, not making eye contact with Grantaire. “I’ll just stay here until my dad’s off work, shouldn’t be too long, I texted my mom to let her know that I’d just wait for him to come get me.” The hint of worry in his voice was palpable, and Grantaire chose to take a leap of faith. 

“I could drive you home, if you needed?” The offer was stupid, really, nonsensical; he didn’t know where Enjolras lived, how far, but he did know that he wanted to spend as much time with Enjolras as possible if it killed him. “We could talk about our approach to research tomorrow, if you like.” 

Enjolras was quick to accept. “Please,” he said, voice quieter than it had been all day with desperation and—was that warmth?—“I don’t live very far. Thank you so much, I just… didn’t want to trouble anyone.” 

Again they made eye contact, but it was softer, somehow, thawed, and Grantaire caught himself smiling under the heat of the boy’s gaze. 

“Er, see you, guys,” Courfeyrac said from the doorway, “don’t forget to get the lights when you go.” He and Combeferre disappeared through the door holding hands, but the spell was broken and Enjolras’s walls has cemented themselves around him once again. 

“I’m out in the far parking lot, if you want to get going,” Grantaire said, “it’s a bit of a walk.” He stood up off of the table, and offered a joking hand to Enjolras, who apparently didn’t sense it was a joke and accepted it to pull himself up. 

“Let’s go, then,” he said, and the sandpaper was back in his voice. 

They didn’t forget to flick the lights off before leaving.

***

The parking lot was indeed a hike away, and it stretched on ad infinitum with the silence spreading between the two boys. Grantaire didn’t push conversation, instead focused on taking in the trees around him as had become his custom. One of his favorite paintings featured the trees out here, sun-dappled and windblown. It hung on the wall opposite his bed, and he should have been ashamed to admit it brought him peace when he was stressed or anxious.

But Enjolras didn’t need to hear that. They would do well on the debate, and Grantaire would get through this project without springing his unwanted affection—romantic or otherwise—on the boy, no matter how much he wanted to. 

“Blue Volvo,” Grantaire said, gesturing to the far left of the parking lot, “the one closest to the stop sign.” 

Enjolras nodded wordlessly. _This is going to be a long drive if he doesn’t say anything,_ thought Grantaire absently, before digging through the side pocket of his backpack for the keys and popping the trunk open. He tossed his bag in, and Enjolras followed, albeit placing it rather more deliberately than Grantaire. 

The car was scorchingly hot despite the weather being mild, and Grantaire flinched as he was hit with a burst of hot, leather-scented air from behind the car door. 

“Where did you say you lived, again?” he asked, cranking the ignition and turning the air conditioner to the coldest setting. 

“Er, Poppy Lane, very end of the cul de sac,” he said, “you know where it is?” 

Grantaire nodded, and whipped out of the parking spot backwards. 

The drive began excruciatingly silent, so quiet that Grantaire slapped the radio on and let the tinny Top 40s music seep through the car. 

“Why did you come today?” Enjolras asked quietly, staring out the passenger window. “After all this time, why today?” 

Had Grantaire been in a worse mood, he would have snapped his head off, but this was Enjolras. Unfortunately, the truth— _I came today because watching you speak is the stuff my wet dreams are made of and I have a hopeless crush on you_ —likely wouldn’t go over very well, so he had to pull out the alternative truth. 

“Figured it was time, Apollo,” he said, shifting his hands on the wheel. “I shouldn’t have been an ass back then.” 

He shot a quick glance to the passenger seat, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Enjolras was staring at him. 

“Oh.” 

The car lapsed into silence again, and Grantaire wondered if admitting his crush, as a way to spark conversation if nothing else, would be more painful than what they were already engaged in. 

“Uh, turn here,” Enjolras said, pointing just past a hedge coming up on the right, and Grantaire dutifully swung the car over. “Last house on your left,” he followed up, before settling back into silence again. 

His house was moderate in the way only suburban houses could be: a well-kept lawn, painted an unobtrusive shade of beige, with a pavered driveway and a white mailbox. The only thing at all unusual about it was the flags hanging over the garage. Dozens, if not scores, some from countries Grantaire recognized and some from ones he didn’t. Capping the line off was a vibrant rainbow flag, waving jauntily. 

He bumped into the driveway and parked, leaving the engine idling. Words hung half-spoken in his throat, and he and Enjolras both opened their mouths at the same time before snapping them shut again. 

“Um,” Enjolras began, “thanks for the ride, Grantaire. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“See you.”

He almost said more, but Enjolras slammed the car door before he could, and it was a dagger through the heart to remember that this was civility, not friendship. This was a partnership built on necessity. 

He blasted angry music on the way home with the windows down, pulling off his beanie and letting the wind whip his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I'm... quarantined so I'm able to update super often right now, and I'm having a blast with this. If you are... spare kudos? Got a comment? Or just keysmash? Hit me UP, folks. Drop a song recommendation in the comments! It can be Enjoltaire-related or not, if you can't tell from my end note ramble I'm super bored at home alone rn, so. Yeah. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm on Tumblr [here.](https://catstrophysics.tumblr.com/) Have a lovely day!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An in-class work day, Google Docs shenanigans, and Grantaire and Éponine eat lunch with Enjolras and his friends.

Tuesday dawned no better than Monday, grey and bleak in the heavy, blanketed way only stormclouds could bring. Grantaire’s heart was in much the same place, tumultuous in all the wrong places and pining after the light of the sun in more ways than he could count. 

Dr. Mabeuf’s room was, fortunately, cozy, and he made to sit with Éponine before remembering: the crossfire. 

Enjolras. 

He sighed, skimming the room, looking for Enjolras and his friends, a trio too inseparable to try to seek out individually, and found them commandeering four tables in the back corner, already in heated discussion about something. Enjolras wouldn’t meet his eye properly as he made his way between haphazard rows of desks, fixing his gaze on a spot somewhere just past Grantaire’s left ear. 

“Morning, Apollo, chariot break down?” he said lightly, settling in the chair next to the boy with one leg tucked up under himself. Combeferre stifled a laugh, and Grantaire threw him a smile. _Someone_ here was cultured, at least, knew his Greek myths. 

“Let’s just work, Grantaire, okay,” Enjolras said, and _there,_ he finally met his eyes, and Grantaire found himself nodding before he had a chance to make another sarcastic comment. “I’ve already shared a Google Drive folder with all of you,” he continued, “it’s blue, titled Prison Crossfire, go find it, we’ve got research to do.” Brusque, as always, sweeping conversation and thoughts along in a whirlwind with him. With that, he tugged his own laptop from his bag, and Grantaire took a moment to study the stickers plastered all over the back. He’d never pegged Enjolras as a sticker person before, but his willingness to fully commit to things meant he probably never suffered the same dilly-dallying over placement that Grantaire did, a vinyl sticker of a red, white, and blue cockade stuck haphazardly partially covering some quote in Latin that Grantaire recognized but couldn’t peg the source, and—

Oh, he was staring again, and Enjolras looked ticked off, and it wasn’t even 8 AM yet. 

“Grantaire, wake up,” he said, and it was notably gentler than he’d been expecting him to be at this hour, especially considering their track record. Especially considering it was Grantaire he was talking to. “C’mon.” 

He chose to take this moment of Enjolras’s grace and treat it cautiously, moving to take out his own, sticker-free computer and starting to dig through his mess of shared folders. By the time he found it—renamed “cross my heart and hope to die, stick a prison in my eye”—Dr. Mabeuf was walking around the classroom with a bright blue sticky note, taking down each group’s topic and sides. He came to them and Combeferre started speaking before any of the rest of them had a second to pipe up. 

Grantaire had only taken his eyes away from the screen for a second, but when he turned back all the research the others had pulled together thus far had been transformed into a brilliant shade of magenta and a curly, loopy font that was near-impossible to read. 

“Courfeyrac, come on—” Enjolras started, but Combeferre cut him off. 

“Yeah, man, you know red’s Enjolras’s color.” Smugly, he selected all the text and highlighted it in the default red color, blinding and untamed, and for a moment, Grantaire recognized exactly why Enjolras was so compelling in red: it was his exact brand of fire, untempered by black and white. 

“Grantaire.” His name in Enjolras’s voice, the syllables perfectly articulated, snapped him out of his color theory reverie. “Research.” 

With a touch of chagrin, he set into research, and didn’t let his attention waver for the rest of the period until the bell rang, shaking him from deep ponderance over recidivism rates in Arizona versus other states. 

He looked up with a start, hair flopping into his eyes, and found Enjolras looking at him with a touch of _something_ —it wasn't fondness, not really, it was too tight around the edges, pulling at the corners of his mouth and eyes. 

“Thanks,” he said, “um, thanks for working so hard, Grantaire,” and there was his name again, flawlessly executed. “I know this project doesn’t mean as much to you as it does to me, but,” he clapped a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and the warmth seared straight through his heart, “I really appreciate it.” He gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and opened his mouth as if to say more, but apparently thought the better of it. His hand lingered a few seconds longer, and it could have been a moment of some kind, but then he was gone, walking towards the door. He turned back at the last second. 

“If you, um.” He paused, swallowed, tried again. “If you want to sit with me and Combeferre and Courf, at lunch today, that would be.” He paused again. “Neat.” 

Grantaire froze, taken aback, searching his inscrutable face for a joke, for a place he was poking fun, and found nothing but the stoic set of his jaw that accompanied any decision he’d thought long and hard about. 

“And ask Éponine if she wants to come, too, I know you two are friends and her whole group sits with us anyways. Um.” He paused, again, readjusting the straps on his backpack, “yeah. See you then, Grantaire.” 

He was left reeling ever-so-slightly, wondering what world he’d fallen into where Enjolras was willingly volunteering to be in his presence longer than strictly necessary. And wondering why the leader in red, paragon of never speaking a word without certainty, was stumbling over his speech now.

***

It felt dangerous, leaving the corner of the lunchroom where he and Éponine usually sheltered from the din. Like walking into battle, armed with a dented plastic tray and a too-heavy backpack and your best friend by your side and the lemony scent of disinfectant hanging thick and heavy in the air.

Jehan was waving, though, and Éponine grinned widely at them in spite of herself. “C’mon, R,” she prompted, and they made their way over cautiously. 

“Éponine! You’re here!” Joly cheered from his seat at the corner, leg stretched out haphazardly atop his cane, and offered her a few seconds of jazz-hands as a greeting. Musichetta and Bossuet, leaning comfortably on one another, smiled warmly at her, so despite what she’s told Grantaire, they obviously _didn’t_ hate her, and she wasn’t dragging the whole group down. Joly slid over closer to the edge to leave a wedge of room for Éponine and patted the bench warmly. 

“Thanks, guys,” she said, sliding into the space, and she gave Grantaire a brief smile before turning to talk animatedly with Bossuet. 

The realization that he wouldn’t be sitting with her came slowly for Grantaire, and it wasn’t until he turned to look at the other end of the table—noticeably lacking the warm, bright colors of Joly and Musichetta—that he saw Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac deep in conversation about something that was causing Enjolras’s brow to furrow like he was musing on something serious. 

Courfeyrac’s light, boundless nature was his saving grace. “Oh! Hey! R! You’re here! Enjolras was saying he didn’t think you’d actually come, _scoot over Enjolras_ , but ‘Ferre and I knew you would, because, um.” He cut off awkwardly, scratching at his mop of brown curls and raising a pointed eyebrow at the side of Enjolras’s head, who was staring at Grantaire with a look uncomfortably close to… _something_. “Anyways! Sit down! C’mon!” Whatever the emotion on Enjolras’s face was, it was too much to contend with at the moment, and Grantaire slid into the space Enjolras slowly opened up without a further thought. 

The table iced over, solidified silence radiating out from Enjolras despite Courfeyrac’s desperate attempts to engage him in conversation. Grantaire pulled an apple from his pocket and took a bite, pondering the merits of messing with Enjolras just to watch him get flustered. 

What can he say, he’s bored. 

“So, Enj,” he started, and the boy snapped to face him at the nickname. “Have you always looked like you rode a golden chariot across the sky this morning, or has that been a more recent development?” Combeferre choked on his water across the table, and Grantaire added a mental tally mark to his score of how many bad Apollo jokes he’d made the solemn boy laugh with. 

Enjolras should have, by all accounts, rolled his eyes and not responded, smooth and unbothered as ever, and Grantaire was prepared for his comment to go unanswered as the vast majority of his Apollo references did. He didn’t chance looking directly at Enjolras again until he realized _he_ was already looking at _him_ , and glancing up revealed Enjolras had blushed from the tip of his nose to the tops of his ears.

_Cute_ , thought Grantaire absently. 

And then he got hit in the side of the head with a piece of bread. 

Bahorel smiled sheepishly, mouthing out an apology, running a hand through his hair, and Grantaire tossed the bread back with a passing word about minding where your toast flew and a passing thought about how _easy_ it was to fit in here… mostly. Everywhere except Enjolras, who kept him on edge permanently. He mused for a moment on that, on how the passion that seemed to radiate endlessly from Enjolras’s very skin managed to make him feel like he was falling whenever they talked—however brief—and how goddamn dizzying it was to try to focus on anything other than him, and _why was he such a jackass all the time when Enjolras hadn’t tried to do anything to him first_

When Grantaire snapped back into the conversation happening on his other side, the three boys were looking at him expectantly. 

“Well?” Enjolras asked. 

“Um,” Grantaire replied. The question had escaped him, and he was considering just answering “yes,” melting under the heat of Enjolras’s annoyed gaze, but Combeferre jumped in and saved him. 

“We were just talking about how much more work needs to be done on the debate, and coming up with a plan for where we were going to work and practice. Courf and I have a plan, and you and Enjolras…” he gestured for Enjolras to continue. 

“We need to find somewhere to work, it can’t be at my house for _reasons_ —” _what reasons?_ “—and you have a car, and do you mind if we get together and work on this at your place? Dr. Mabeuf said he wouldn’t be giving us any more time in class—” _when?_ “—and we should do as best as we can on this, because it’s worth so much of our grade.” He stopped, out of breath, and took a slow, measured inhale. “Are we good to work at your house, then?” 

He sounded pleading, almost, although there was no need to in Grantaire’s mind. But Enjolras was already talking again. “If not, we could always stay here late, or go to the library, but I worry about being too loud there, especially when we’re practicing. We could also do online, maybe, although I don’t know how well that would work with…” he dwindled into silence, puzzlement etched across his face, and Grantaire finally took it upon himself to put him out of his misery. 

“Yeah, we can work at my house, we can even start today, if you want. My parents work late on Wednesday, Thursdays, and Fridays, if you want to come over then and get some stuff done. It’s due next Thursday, right?” 

Enjolras nodded. “Thanks, Grantaire,” he said, voice back in its usual register, and when Grantaire nodded a nonverbal “no problem,” Enjolras reached out and grabbed his hand gently with one of his own. “I mean it,” he implored, and something in the desperation in his voice and the concern in his eyes made Grantaire’s head spin even faster. 

“I know,” he said in response, and he could feel the tightness in his throat in how soft the words came out. 

“Did you just fuckin’ Han Solo him, R?” Courfeyrac cut in, and the spell was broken and the boys broke apart as if shocked. “Damn.” He shook his head mock-judgingly, before turning to prop his chin up on Combeferre’s arm. “That’s cruel, isn’t it, babe?” 

Combeferre nodded gravely. “The cruelest.” Then he and Courfeyrac dissolved into giggles with one another. 

Enjolras muttered something along the lines of “I have to go” before standing up, long legs unfolding as he moved. He tossed Grantaire a backwards glance, blond ponytail following the movement of his head, and looked as if he was about to speak, before closing his mouth and turning away again. 

From further down the table, Grantaire heard his name spoken softly. He leaned to see who, and it was Jehan, hands absently twisting their long auburn hair into a plait. 

They raised their eyebrows at him, and it occurred distantly to Grantaire that maybe he had been blushing just as hard as Enjolras throughout their encounter. It occurred even more distantly to him to wonder for a moment what Enjolras had to blush about; he wasn’t stuck in a school project with his crush, wasn’t coping with shoving aside feelings for the sake of a grade, wasn’t staring dreamily into Grantaire’s eyes—mud-brown, not sky-blue like his. 

“Oh, dude, you’ve got it _bad_ ,” said Jehan, and for once, Grantaire had no sarcastic remark to tack on. 

“Yeah,” he replied, taking another bite from his partially-forgotten apple, “I do.” 

And then he launched into a conversation with Cosette about whatever had happened in math that day—did the teacher know the projector was off the whole time? 

They’d never really been friends; honestly, that was the unfortunate case with most of the people sitting around this table. But they were warm, and welcoming, and checking briefly on Éponine, who was in absolute hysterics, leaning on Joly’s shoulder while Bossuet told a story through tears of laughter, he felt like this could be a group he could get to know. 

_If_ he could get Enjolras to like him more than simple tolerance, and _if_ he could get through this project without saying or doing anything to piss the hot-headed blond off further, and _if_ the tentative partnership they’d formed thus far could maintain itself for a little over a week… and if Grantaire could avoid shoving his foot in his mouth by yelling at Enjolras’s gorgeous face that he wanted to push him against a locker and make out with him. These were the thoughts pounding through his head, put there by a cocktail of hormones and panic. 

He was fucked. And not in the fun way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this chapter! My apologies for it being slightly shorter than previous ones; something came up last night that took me out of commission, but I'm better now! And, fair warning, future chapters will probably get steadily longer. As always, drop some kudos and/or comments below—I'm still quarantined and still VERY bored, so throw me a song rec that reminds you of exR! (Or a normal song rec.) 
> 
> If anyone's curious, the quote on Enjolras's laptop is _"non nobis solum nati sumus"_ , which I remembered from a book from when I was really young, and it means "not for ourselves alone we are born," and. It seemed a fitting quote for him to have. I don't take Latin, so if you do and you disagree with the translation or me assigning it to our fave local Enjolras, hit me up. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Shoutout to @vicomtexdaae for their lovely comments and making me want to actually buck up and write this chapter:) I'm [here](https://catstrophysics.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, drop by and say hi!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire and Éponine hang out after school, and Grantaire gets a text message.

The bell rang, finally, and Grantaire left his last period as fast as he could to find Éponine. Their weekly standing agreement to go do something idiotic fell on Tuesday nights, and there had been talk of an arcade showdown over the past week. 

She was leaning back against the lockers, as always, and he had to stifle a grin. No matter what was going on with the rest of his life, he’d always have her. A damn good best friend. 

“R! Guess what time it is?” she shouted to him when he was within shouting distance, and a freshman walking by flinched away. Quiet she was not. 

“Arcade time?” he offered, and she pulled him into an aggressive embrace, clapping him twice on the back. 

“Arcade time,” she answered solemnly. “You’re driving.” 

Grantaire always drove. It was, in part, because he liked to have control over the music—Éponine’s penchant for obscure foreign rap music at obscene volumes didn’t sit well with driving safely, so the radio stayed down low, playing some mix of music he’d accumulated over time from a million different places. 

The road to the arcade was mostly empty, only truly packed with cars on Saturday afternoons when everyone was driving as far away from their town as they could, headed to the highway. Grantaire rolled down the windows and grinned at Éponine, absently braiding her hair in the passenger seat and humming along with the music. 

It was peaceful for the whole fifteen minutes it took to get to the shabby strip mall their favorite arcade nestled in, and then hell broke loose between them. 

“You know, R,” Éponine started, a false air of levity filling up her voice, “I can’t imagine why you would ever try to beat me at Pac-Man.” She batted her eyelashes at him and grinned a wicked grin, holding the door open for him. 

He fingered the bills in his pocket before heading for the token machine. “And _I_ can’t imagine why you would ever think that would stop me from trying.” He fed the money into the machine, and with a whir and a clatter, a handful of tokens dropped out. “Best five out of seven?” 

She followed him, gathering her own handful of tokens in the fold of her shirt. “You’re on.”

They’d been coming to this arcade for long enough that the floor layout was practically second nature, winding between rows of neon-painted games with ringing bells and swirling lights. It was familiar in a way nothing else was, and Grantaire caught Éponine’s fingers in his own, swinging their joined hands back and forth between them lightly. 

She glanced sideways at him. “Someone’s in a good mood,” she remarked, and he nodded. “Any particular reason why?” 

There was the true answer: Enjolras was willing to stay within three feet of him without looking like he was about to catch fire, and kept doing tiny things that gave Grantaire hope, and he was so excited for the project. That was not the answer he gave. 

“Just excited to kick your ass at everything we play.”

She gasped, pulling back from him with a flourish, before pausing, considering. “Race you to Pac-Man!” she hollered, before taking off running for the corner where the game was housed, Converse squeaking on the linoleum. Grantaire took off at a jog after her, a warm spot in his chest bubbling up. Despite how analytical and no-nonsense she pretended to be so much of the time, she was still human. 

She was dialing the game up before he even got there, familiar sounds coming from the speakers at the sides. 

Grantaire swept his eyes around the hall, mostly empty considering it was a Tuesday afternoon, and caught sight of a frizzy head of hair half-obscured behind the front desk. The head looked up and caught Grantaire’s eye, startled, and he recognized Feuilly from math class and him sitting with Enjolras’s friends at lunch that day. He grinned and waved, and after a pause the boy returned the gesture before tucking his head back down behind the register. Éponine had already started playing, focus locked on the screen before her, colors glowing off her face. 

He started up his own game, sneaking peeks at her score as they played in near-silence, only the occasional jab tossed back and forth when one of them lost a life. 

“Hey,” he said, between navigating the maze, “did you know Feuilly works here?” 

She did something that caused a louder sound than normal to play and cocked a grin at the game, before snatching a glance at him. “Feuilly like Bahorel and Bossuet’s friend?” 

“I guess?” 

“Oh, neat, we should go say hi to him after this, yeah? After I kick your ass, that is.” 

She beat him soundly in all five of the rounds they played, as she had the past seven years. He didn’t expect otherwise, really, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to grouch about it for the next few minutes, flicking the end of her braid over her opposite shoulder. 

“Hey, Feuilly,” he called to the boy behind the counter, who looked up from his cell phone. 

“R! Éponine! How’re y’all?” His voice had a lilt to it that Grantaire wasn’t expecting, quieter and more methodical of speech than he would have pegged the boy for. 

Éponine grinned, walking up to the counter and leaning forward on her elbows. “Just crushed R here at Pac-Man, so pretty damn good. How long’ve you worked here?” 

He raised his eyebrows, apparently counting in his head. “Two weeks now? Picked up the job when I saw they were hiring, it’s decent money and not bad hours. How long have you two been coming here?” 

Grantaire and Éponine turned to one another, then burst out laughing. 

“It’s a bit of a standing thing, we go do something together once a week,” he explained, then gestured around at the arcade. “Been coming here as long as we’ve been together.” 

Feuilly’s eyebrows shot up for a moment, then settled back down. “Wow, long time, then? Nice.” His watch beeped, and he shut it off without a glance. “That’s end of shift, I’ve got to go lock up, but I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow!” He ran a hand through his hair, and it stuck up even more. 

Éponine’s house was only a few minutes more past the arcade, barely enough time to get through one song (Night Moves, by Bob Seger, which Grantaire insisted was a work of art and Éponine called “grandpa music” while humming along), but halfway in the middle was a run-down ice cream shop with a faded sign hanging out front: Papi’s Creamery. Grantaire swung into the weed-speckled parking lot, and they both bounded out of the car, the promise of cold, creamy sweetness too tempting to walk at a reasonable pace. 

Minutes later, they were back in the car holding a cone apiece. 

Éponine took a big lick off of hers—dark chocolate mint with marshmallows mixed in—and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “There is absolutely nothing,” she said, voice smoothed over in bliss, “and I mean _nothing_ , better than Papi’s ice cream.”

He could only nod in agreement, licking around the sides of his cone to catch any caramelly drips that threatened to slide down while he drove. “Home?” 

She winced, then nodded. 

Grantaire generally avoided staying more than two minutes in the driveway of the Thénardier household, mostly because the one time he tried to park for longer than that, Éponine’s father had come out and started questioning him intently with alcohol heavy on his breath. 

After that, she’d started sleeping over at his house more weekends than not, and Grantaire’s parents had the heart not to ask why Éponine was spending Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights on the air mattress in the floor of Grantaire’s room. 

She got out quickly, industriously, giving Grantaire a tiny salute through the window before unlatching the side gate. He pulled away quickly, making a mostly-clean three-point turn in the street, and his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was probably Éponine, texting him a thanks in the form of some niche meme, and he disregarded it. 

The drive home was quiet, calm, permeated with music he knew by heart and the soft, safe warmth in his chest he always felt after spending time with her. He tossed himself into bed as soon as he was through the front door, backpack dropped by the bookshelf and shoes toed off in the middle of the floor. 

Then he remembered the text, and dug blindly through his pocket for his phone. 

It wasn’t Éponine at all. 

It was Enjolras, a simple “Hey, Grantaire.” Perfect punctuation over text. He rolled over, heart speeding up and leaping into his throat, and began to type back. 

>>you: _hey apollo_

Within seconds a response popped into view. 

>>Enjolras: _How was your day?_

>>you: _...good, you?_

_This couldn’t be right,_ Grantaire thought, _Enjolras doesn’t ask how his day went ever._

>>Enjolras: _Pretty good. Have fun with Éponine?_

Why he bothered to nail the accent, Grantaire wasn’t going to waste time pondering. 

>>you: _yeah, she’s great, kicked my ass at pacman tho. how’d you know???_

>>Enjolras: _Feuilly texted me that he saw you two at the arcade he works at. How long?_

Grantaire thought back, counting the years he’d known Éponine, from wrestling with each other on the playground at their under-funded elementary school to late-night phone calls in middle school, talking about boys. 

>>you: _first? second? grade, idk, it’s been forever_

>>Enjolras: _Impressive. You two make a lovely pair._

_Oh._ Oh, _that’s not right,_ Grantaire thought, realization dawning. He started to type out an answer, explaining that no, he and Éponine weren’t together, just friends, but “just friends” sounded like the wrong words, and Enjolras was already typing, three dots wobbling in the corner. 

>>Enjolras: _I have to go cook dinner. It was nice talking to you, Grantaire. Hope you and Éponine are well._

Grantaire squashed his face in a pillow and groaned. It wasn’t the first time someone had assumed he and Éponine were together; they were close enough to lean all over each other, hold hands, fix hair, and whatever else it was best friends did. But it felt so much worse than every other time, a hard knot of dread coiling tighter and tighter in his gut. He rolled onto his side, joints aching with the motion—apparently, Pac-Man takes more out of the body than he’d remembered—and curled into the fetal position. 

He debated calling Éponine, asking her what the hell to do about this, but she’d tell him to tell Enjolras the truth, and that was _hard_ and would make everything awkward, so that was out. 

He could call Jehan, who’d be good for some comfort and distraction, but they were usually busy this time of day and he didn’t really feel like bothering them over this.

Courfeyrac was another option. He’d been… supportive, in his own weird, joking way, of Grantaire and Enjolras’s tentative friendship, and he was one of Enjolras’s best friends, so if anyone would know if he had a shot in hell of winning Enjolras’s affection, it was him. 

Grantaire mustered up the resolve to call Courfeyrac, but was sent directly to voicemail with Courfeyrac’s cheerful voice telling him to “say some words after the beep!,” and he hung up before the tone sounded. 

He rolled off the bed then, thumping on his stomach onto the floor, vaguely aware that that probably hurt, before reaching behind his back and pulling one leg over his shoulder, a tiny glow of pride surging through his chest as the muscles unclenched and his normal level of flexibility settled back into his body. He turned over and reached for his toes, folding himself nearly in half, then spreading his legs as wide as he could into a deep center split before sliding back into a simple butterfly position. 

The stretches helped, their similarity to dancing easing the knot in his chest, and he sighed again, rolling his shoulders back, feeling the tension drain from his neck. 

It occurred distantly to him that he should work on the project, dig up more sources to use and start drafting an outline of their argument. He sighed as he stood, dragging his backpack over closer to the bed, before pulling out his laptop and flopping over backwards. After a moment’s consideration, he hauled a soft, navy blanket over his head and cracked the laptop screen under it, working from within his own private tent. 

He pretended not to notice Enjolras’s icon in the corner of the document, and had to consciously ignore it when the whole document shifted down as the boy typed out his own thoughts, formatted noticeably worse than Grantaire’s own, not that he was checking. Having an artist’s eye did strange things to the mind, sometimes. 

The red cursor was all too fitting for Enjolras, he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We broke 10,000 words, boys! Heck yeah! If you've read this far, thank you so much, truly. If you're enjoying this story so far, please drop some kudos or a comment down below, they mean the world to me, especially right now in the weird haze of time that is quarantine. This chapter be like: "I love R and Éponine's friendship and I Hope You Know That." 
> 
> Big thanks to @Hawkguys_and_Coffee and @Lovely_Sunshine_22 for their wonderful comments :)
> 
> Right now, I'm hoping to keep uploading a new chapter a few times a week, but I've just re-begun school online, and it's a bit of a learning curve with a ton of work right now, so... no promises. 
> 
> I’m [here](https://catstrophysics.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, feel free to drop by and chat!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday begins oddly, but fortunately for Grantaire, it seems things may be looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took forEVER to get written and proper, so I hope you enjoy it!

His alarm shredded his eardrums, as it did every morning, but it was particularly painful this morning. Groaning, he rolled upright, and his sketchbook and a pencil tumbled off his chest and thumped on the floor. _Oh, right._ He’d managed to work for all of fifteen minutes last night, opening the websites to all the sources he and Enjolras had compiled, before his last vestiges of focus gave out and he feverishly scribbled out the faintest impressions of the boy: blond hair tied up messily behind him, or flowing down over his shoulders, hands steady at his laptop or wild in motion, and the pencil lines were still laid bare on the page. For a split second, he wondered if Enjolras would ever want to see them, before a wave of shame, panic, and general uneasiness washer over him. _Damn._

He rolled over to check his phone, and the uneasiness was replaced with a hot wave of _something_ when he saw more new text notifications than he remembered ever having before. 

>>Enjolras: _What did you get done last night? I saw you working._

He looked at the floor again, this time seeking out the sketchbook with intention. The page littered with sketches had taken up all the time he’d been planning on working. Very little had been added to his notes on private prisons aside from reformatting. 

He elected not to answer yet, preferring to take his chances with Enjolras in first period rather than trying to sound like not a slacker over text. _As if it could lower his opinion of you any further,_ came the voice in the back of his head, snide and penetrating. He shook it off. 

He went to go check the rest of his messages, deleting a solicitation from a nearby pizza company before opening the three hundred missed texts from a new group chat. 

The group chat was titled simply “Amis,” and as he scrolled through the list of members he put together that it was all people from the Monday meetings that sat with Enjolras at lunch. _Friend_ people. 

_Screw not texting Enjolras this morning_ , he thought, checking the clock and switching back to his message with the boy. 

>>you: _did you add me to that groupchat thing??? why???_

Enjolras’s response popped up instantly. 

>>Enjolras: _I figured you should be in it; you come to meetings, and you and Éponine are sitting with us now. Is that wrong?_

Grantaire grinned at his phone in spite of himself. 

>>you: _nah, cool with me. is ep there too?_

>>Enjolras: _Of course. I have to go, I’ll see you soon. :)_

The smiley face hung in the back of his mind as he went through the motions of getting ready, tossing the sketchbook back on the bed still open and tucking his laptop away in his backpack. 

He didn’t usually pay attention while he drove, staring through the dusty windshield without ever processing what he saw. But this morning had started out off-kilter, so it was a good time to see the scenery for the first time in forever. _The goldenrods are pretty_ , he thought absently, and a flash of a very similar shade of deep gold clipped through his mind. 

The drive took less time than usual, which was probably because he was half an hour earlier than every other day. Go figure. 

He pondered over what had been in his head all morning—all week, if he had to be totally honest. Enjolras. 

The boy was something special, that much was obvious. Clever, and competent, and drop-dead _gorgeous_ , all of which Grantaire knew. And he’d been so tolerant lately, talking to Grantaire as they worked, texting him, it was almost as if—

_No,_ he reminded himself, flinching at the thought. They weren’t friends. Enjolras was a partner on a project, a good student compared to Grantaire’s mediocrity, and he was just like this because he had to be for his grade. It was a sobering thought, and the edge of self-loathing crept back into Grantaire’s thoughts as he flicked the radio off. Of course Enjolras didn’t like him. A bitter laugh bit out of his throat, ringing in the partial silence. He was just Grantaire, just R, just the voice from the back of the classroom. Just the nuisance in the meeting. Not worth knowing, not worth getting to know. 

Not worth Enjolras’s attention. 

He noticed the renegade tears slipping from the corners of his eyes absently as he pulled into the parking lot, but didn’t feel the emotions to go with them, as though it was happening to someone else, in the driver’s seat of a different car in a different place. 

Someone knocked on the window just as he killed the ignition. He wiped the tears off his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt to see who, moderately surprised to find Courfeyrac staring at him, concern etched into the set of his brows and the way his mouth turned down at the corners for the first time Grantaire could remember seeing. He pointed through the window at the passenger-side seat, mouthing “can I come in?” 

Grantaire nodded and flipped the switch to unlock the doors, taking the second Courfeyrac took to walk around the car to try to compose himself so he didn’t look like he’d just been crying. 

The boy opened the door cautiously, with a hesitancy of movement so unlike him. 

Courfeyrac looked him over slowly, searchingly, before speaking. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Grantaire said, and flinched at the lie. Technically, nothing _was_ wrong, because nothing had changed. It didn’t feel like it, though. 

“Bullshit.” 

Grantaire glared at him, and Courfeyrac simply stared back, concern rampant in his eyes. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, turning to stare out the window. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said, and before he continued he knew he was going to say too much. “Nothing’s wrong because nothing’s changed, and nothing’s going to change, and I’ll always just be Grantaire, and everything will go back to how it should be, and I’ll get over it, or I’ll stare at him from a distance again, and I’ll just stop everything but nothing’s wrong, okay?” Enjolras’s name didn’t slip past his lips, but it didn’t need to. 

“He doesn’t hate you, you know, R. Far from it.” 

“Yes he does, I’m nothing like anyone he likes or even halfway respects.” 

“Maybe so,” he said thoughtfully, “but that doesn’t mean he hates you.” 

Grantaire didn’t respond, waiting for Courfeyrac to go on, to prove that Enjolras didn’t hate him. Something. _Anything._

“He wasn’t the same in meetings after you left, you know.” 

_There it is._ He raised an eyebrow, hovering between wanting to know more and wanting Courfeyrac to stop getting his hopes up. 

“He shouted, yeah, of course he did, because you were being an ass, but you always stayed before, always fought back, and he loved it. He _lived_ for it. What was so different about that day, R, that you just left?” 

He didn’t want to answer truthfully. Didn’t want Courfeyrac to know, didn’t want to admit anything, but something the wide brown eyes made him say it anyways. 

“Some guys called me gay earlier that day.” 

It wasn’t anything big, really, in the great scheme of things, but he remembered the angry, cold fear he felt—three of the football players, ones whose names he didn’t know, had cornered him in the hallway, called him gay, called him worse, and the feeling surged back. The tears he’d dried with the his sleeve came back quickly, welling over. 

“Aren’t you?” Courfeyrac’s puzzlement was obvious, his wonder at why Grantaire took offense, and he laughed wetly before nodding. 

“Yeah, I am, bi, I mean. It was the principle of the thing though, to be ashamed, and then Enjolras said something about how gay students weren’t discriminated against anymore, and I just got so angry, and when he argued back I figured it would be better if I just.” He took a breath. “Left. So I did.” 

“That’s probably not how he meant it, man, he’s gay, too. I mean,” it was his turn to laugh, now, and if he noticed the shock spreading across Grantaire’s face, he didn’t say anything, “we all are. You’ve seen me and ‘Ferre, right?” Grantaire nodded. “He’s my _boyfriend_ , man, and Enj knows the shit we’ve gotten for it. Seriously, Enjolras knows he was wrong, tore himself up over it, and he’s being as nice as he fucking can now to try to get you to come back.” 

His voice had risen as he talked, expanding to fill the car as his hands moved wildly, and Grantaire had shrunk down without noticing. Courfeyrac took a slow breath. 

“He doesn’t hate you, R. Furthest thing from it, actually. We should probably get to class, though. Are you okay to get out now?” 

He wasn’t, not really, still hearing the echo chamber in his head insisting that Enjolras hated him, still a second away from more tears, but he nodded nonetheless and they got out of the car together, Courfeyrac waiting for him to haul his backpack from the trunk. 

“Why are _you_ being so nice to me, then?” Grantaire asked. Maybe Enjolras had a reason, but as far as he could tell, Courfeyrac had none. 

“Never had anything against you, and you’re damn funny, R, and besides, we’re friends now, yeah?” It was nonchalant in the strangest way, like Courfeyrac had never noticed everything wrong with Grantaire. 

“Oh.” They walked in silence for a few minutes, Courfeyrac’s boots and Grantaire’s sneakers crunching on the gravel. “And Enjolras is gay?” He was aiming for nonchalance, but his words came out choked, strained. 

Courfeyrac gave him an indecipherable look before answering, “Basically, yeah. Why?” He turned to look at Grantaire, who felt heat spread across his cheeks. “Oh my god, do you have a thing for Enjolras? Is that why you cared if he hated you?”

Grantaire didn’t answer, pulling open the door to the school instead.

“Oh my god, _you have a thing for Enjolras_ , dude that’s so great, seriously!” Courfeyrac was nearly bouncing with excitement. “You have to tell him.” 

Grantaire froze. “No. No, no, nope, never, not at all, you’re crazy, no, no, did I mention no?” 

Courfeyrac just laughed. “Someday, then.” 

The warning bell rang, and they walked into class together. Courfeyrac took the chair that wasn’t next to Enjolras, which Grantaire responded to with a glare. Courfeyrac matched his glare with a wink, and Combeferre looked between them probingly. 

“Am I missing something here?” 

“Nah, babe,” Courfeyrac said, and he leaned over to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Just a joke between me and R here. Enjy, baby, how was your morning?”

Enjolras stiffened. “Good, I guess, thanks.” 

“Mhm, and R, how about you?” Courfeyrac prompted, nudging Grantaire under the table. 

“Could have been better, but getting better now that I’m seeing your face, Apollo.” Enjolras went beet-red, and Courfeyrac cracked up. Even Combeferre managed a giggle. Before anyone could respond, Dr. Mabeuf came into the room, and an easy silence spread among the students. 

“Okay, y’all,” he said—and trust Dr. Mabeuf to be the only teacher who ever used ‘y’all’ to address a class—“we don’t have a work day today, because there is more to learn, after all, so be sure you and your partners are working outside of class!” He launched then into an analysis of the shortcomings of major political parties, and Grantaire resigned himself to taking notes. 

They were close to twenty minutes into class when a message popped up in the corner of his screen. Enjolras. _Since when did Enjolras text during class?_

>>Enjolras: _Are we still okay to go to your house after school today to work?_

_Fuck._ Grantaire had forgotten that particular detail, but it meant more time with Enjolras, and Courfeyrac’s incredible sketchiness earlier meant he could try to get more information out this way. He texted back, minimizing his notes tab. 

>>you: _yea, ofc, no worries_

>>Enjolras: _You didn’t answer my message this morning. About how much work you got done._

Grantaire didn’t particularly want to admit he got nothing done, but the thought of lying to Enjolras turned something sharp in his stomach he didn’t want to address, so: 

>>you: _i, um. i got distracted by drawing. but i’ll get lots done tonight!!!_

Enjolras sighed next to him, turning to catch his eye directly. “Seriously?” he asked. “Was it at least for an art class?” 

“No, I just like to draw, okay?” he whispered back. “I’m sorry, Apollo, I’m just not as dedicated as you.” 

He flinched slightly as Grantaire’s words landed. “Don’t apologize, you did nothing wrong, it was my fault for antagonizing you.” 

He got the sneaking suspicion they weren’t talking about last night, or drawing anymore. 

“Please forgive me, Grantaire.” His eyes were wide and honest, even though he spoke as quietly as he could to avoid drawing the wrath of Dr. Mabeuf. 

Grantaire was weak for him, as always, as he had been months before and last week and this morning. “Of course.” 

Then he turned back to his notes, and kept typing until the class ended. 

Courfeyrac snagged him before he left the room, catching his elbow and spinning him around. “He’s oblivious, you know,” he said, and it took a second for his meaning to register. 

“Enjolras?” 

“Yeah.” He nodded fervently, curls flopping in his eyes. “You could flirt with him all day and he’d never pick up on it. So, um. Don’t worry about that, I guess?” His eyes roamed around the room before settling back on Grantaire’s face. “Say hi to Éponine when you see her, and, um, I’ll see you at lunch?” Then he was gone, yellow flannel shirt vanishing into the hallway, and Grantaire was left even more confused than before.

***

It was second nature to make his way to the table at the side of the room, picking out familiar backs of heads from yards away, even after only a short time sitting there. His heart no longer pounded walking up, fearing someone would tell him to turn around. His heart _did_ still pound as he slid into place next to Enjolras, who turned to him and blushed before continuing talking to Combeferre.

Éponine continued to sit at the other end, deep in conversation with Joly and Bossuet most of the time, but now turning to Feuilly to crack jokes every so often. He grinned to see her fit in. 

Someone kicked him under the table, hard, and he looked up to see Courfeyrac, using the hand that wasn’t intertwined with Combeferre’s to point at his phone and raise his eyebrow. Grantaire dug through the pocket of his sweatshirt to find his own, finding one unread message from Courfeyrac. 

>>courfy <3 <3: _put your arm around him it’ll be hilarious_

Grantaire stared at him incredulously, before typing back a quick NO! and turning to engage in the conversation. 

“What do you think, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked as soon as he’d tuned in, before he’d even processed what they were talking about. _How does this keep happening?_

“I think you’d look a whole hell of a lot better wearing my sweatshirt right now,” he spitballed, and again Courfeyrac nearly choked as Enjolras blushed over his whole face. 

“Damn, R, gottem!” he said, holding out a fist. Grantaire happily tapped his knuckles with his own, before turning to Enjolras. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, Apollo, what were y’all actually talking about?” 

Enjolras took a moment to compose himself again, using one hand to sweep his hair back off his forehead. “Our project, and whether or not we should use today to meet as a whole group or if it would be more beneficial to meet as individual teams.” 

Grantaire looked at him, trying to read his sharp blue eyes, debating whether he should make another joke or if that would push Enjolras past the point of no return into fury. He decided against it. 

“We should meet as individual teams,” he said, keeping his tone intentionally gruff. “I didn’t get enough done last night, my fault entirely, to be ready to work all together.” 

Combeferre nodded. “That’s settled, then.” 

“Honestly,” Grantaire said, before the topic could change, “I think we’d all be better off meeting individually for a bit longer, anyways, because I’m not any good at debates like this and I don’t want to fuck up and lower all of your grades. It’d do much more damage to you than to me.” 

Enjolras looked at him appraisingly. “I’m fine with that, you all?” Combeferre and Courfeyrac made sounds of assent. “Good. Then Grantaire,” he said, turning to face him directly, “we should meet every night the rest of this week to get work done. If we’re going to put off full meetings, we should be sure to use our time well.” 

He was a leader to the core, Enjolras. Even in a situation where it was as unneeded as this. _It’s really attractive,_ provided Grantaire’s brain, and he mentally slapped himself. 

“So Enjolras,” he said, “I’ll see you in the parking lot later, then?” He moved to stand up, not willing to wait for his response, not trusting himself to stay close any longer before he caved and did exactly what Coufeyrac wanted him to. 

“Sure, Grantaire, see you there.” 

“Bye R!” yelled Courfeyrac, with Combeferre’s quieter “take care” nearly buried under it. 

He needed to go back to the dance room and clear his head. Technically, his last two periods were free, because his Media teacher had told him he was better off doing this unit’s work on his own time. So he found his backpack outside the cafeteria and followed the hallway’s familiar twists to the studio. 

It was empty, as always, and his emotions bubbled over as soon as he swung the door closed, pooling on the smooth floor and spreading out until they hit the mirror on the far wall. 

He hated who he was, hated that he danced to calm himself down, hated that he antagonized everyone he wanted to be close to. Hated his hair. 

The sliver of logic that always tried to defend him came out, saying that he was a teenager, that feeling this way was _normal_ , but he shut it out, slamming his hand into a rolled-up yoga mat. 

He had two hours, nearly, to get all of this out of his head, to calm his whirling thoughts until he could stand to be around Enjolras for—how long was he staying over?—for however many hours, until he wouldn’t do anything impulsive. 

There was a playlist in his library from years ago, dozens of love songs he’d deemed good enough to dance to, ones that peeled away the thoughts of beautiful people he could never have, of girls with bright green eyes and boys with curious mouths who had kissed him and said it meant nothing, of words that he tossed out— _I love you_ —and never known what they meant. 

He let the first notes of the first song ring through the room, before raising himself up onto his toes, his mind blissfully empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, drop some kudos and/or comments below. I'm bored out of my skull in quarantine, come chat! 
> 
> Real talk, y'all: this chapter was supposed to be, like, the very beginning of NEXT chapter, but it got rolling and now we're headed for Unlucky 13 chapters. Yay? Yay. Tell me what you think so far! 
> 
> As always, I’m [here](https://catstrophysics.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, feel free to drop by and chat!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire go to Grantaire's house to work on the debate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I could get this out yesterday, but I got distracted reading Les Mis of all things, so... today morning it is.

He danced for what felt like days, until he was panting, sweaty, and nothing was on his mind but the pounding of his own heart. Heaven on earth, but his legs hurt much more than he figured they would if he managed to make it on Saint Peter’s list. Go figure. His sweatshirt and phone were in a pile by the side of the room where he’d discarded them, and as he pulled his sweatshirt on, making a mental plan to seek out water once he left the studio, he checked his phone. 

2:55. 

School ended at 3. He had to meet Enjolras at 3. 

He ran from the room, pulling his backpack over one shoulder as he jogged to the parking lot, chilly air biting the back of his throat. Fortunately, it was a straight shot to the parking lot from the dance studio, and he spied Enjolras’s blond head waiting, leaning against a post from the door. H

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he said, jogging up next to him. Running had only made the ache in his legs worse, but he had gotten there with enough time so he wasn’t actually late. “I, um,” he contemplated telling the truth for a moment, “I had something to take care of.” Not exactly a lie, so it was good enough. “You remember where I’m parked?”

“Yeah, way out there, right? Let’s get going.”

They walked out in amiable, easy silence, the awkwardness from last time they made the trek noticeably dissipated. 

“So,” Grantaire started, “you got any siblings?” 

Enjolras shook his head. “You?” 

“Yeah, I’ve got a sister who’s a couple years younger and a brother who’s out of college. He and his husband live in Portugal, now, near where my grandparents live, so I don’t see him much.” 

“Portugal? Odd choice, why there?” It was a civil question in a civil conversation, their first that Grantaire could remember that wasn’t about school. 

Grantaire laughed. “My whole family is Portuguese. Hell, I’m fluent.” He laughed again, more darkly. “If you need me to prove it, I can. Everyone always asks.” Sarcasm slipped into his words.

Enjolras glanced at him, and readjusted his backpack on his shoulders, something dangerously unspoken in the quirk of his lips. “That’s alright, that’s really impressive though.” 

“Hm, not really.” 

“Yeah, it is, Grantaire.” 

“Why do you always use my full name, Apollo?” Grantaire asked. “No one else does.” 

Enjolras inhaled quickly, a sound close to a gasp. “It’s… it’s a good name,” he said after a pause. “And I didn’t know if you were comfortable with me calling you R, after—”

“It’s alright, man, really, call me whatever you want, I was just curious. I don’t mind, actually.” He kicked a rock out of his way. “It’s sorta nice to hear it sometimes, since no one else does.” 

Enjolras stayed silent for a moment, staring at his feet as he walked. “Why do you call me Apollo, then?” 

Grantaire just laughed. “You ought to be able to figure that out.” 

“I can’t, sue me. Why?” 

“Blue Volvo,” Grantaire said in place of a real response, to which Enjolras simply nodded. 

He popped open the trunk, watching the easy way Enjolras swung his backpack in before dropping his own. 

The drive wasn’t silent this time, far from it. Grantaire turned the music on and started humming along, oblivious to what the song actually was, just that he knew it, when—

“Is this Bleeding Love? By Leona Lewis?” 

Grantaire blanched. It was. “Yeah. I must’ve forgotten to change the music away from—never mind, let me fix it, I have normal music, too. I swear.” _And why the hell do you know this song?_ he wanted to ask, but didn’t. 

“Don’t you _dare_ touch your phone while you’re driving, Grantaire.” And something in the sharpness of his voice actually made him stop and put the phone back in the cupholder. 

“Okay, but be ready for more random love songs to come on.” 

Despite the quizzical look Enjolras threw him, to his credit he didn’t question it. “How far is your house?” 

Grantaire adjusted the rearview mirror. “House isn’t too far, but we’re not going straight there,” he said, and waited for Enjolras’s outrage. 

He didn’t wait long. “Where the hell are we going instead then? We need to get this project done, Grantaire, and we don’t have forever.” 

Enjolras’s annoyance was evident in his voice, exasperation tinging his words, and Grantaire laughed. “You’ll see. Simmer down, Apollo, it’s okay.”

He rolled his eyes, but his shoulders relaxed as he pulled his phone out and typed something quickly. the familiar landmarks whipped by for a few minutes more. Then they pulled into a cracked-over parking lot with a weathered sign hanging crooked on its posts, reading Papi’s Creamery. There was an open spot—really, five open spots; Papi’s didn’t have a crowd most days—by the door, and as the engine sputtered to a halt Grantaire turned to look at Enjolras, pulling the seatbelt under his elbow so he could face him fully. 

“I assume you like ice cream?” 

Enjolras cocked an eyebrow at him, and electricity crackled through the car, quiet static that made goosebumps prickle across Grantaire’s arms.

Enjolras cleared his throat. “We gonna get out?” His fingers were on the door handle, fiddling with the worn edge, and he stared just past Grantaire, eyes unfocused. 

“Uh. Yeah. You got money?” The goosebumps settled, but his skin still felt too big on his body, hands moving slowly as he dug for his wallet and tucked the keys in his pocket. 

The bell over the door clanked as Grantaire pulled it open, holding it back with one foot while Enjolras ducked inside with a tiny nod of thanks. Papi’s smelled faintly of cedar wood and sugar, but smelled much more strongly of the vinegar they cleaned the floor with. The cooler at the far side of the cramped room hummed loudly, and Grantaire felt a bubble of joy rise in his chest. 

“Hey, R, how’re you, who’s your friend? What can I get you boys?” The girl behind the counter talked at a million miles an hour, grinning widely at him, and he grinned back. 

“This is Enjolras, he’s a friend from school. How’ve you been, Maribel?” 

She tossed the rag she had been holding onto the counter. “Never better, sweetheart. Enjolras, what’ll you have?” 

His shoulders jerked back up by his ears and he stuffed his hands back in the pocket of his sweatshirt, posture tensing under Maribel’s warm smile. _Far too stiff for an ice cream shop,_ Grantaire thought absently as he followed Enjolras over to the cooler. 

His eyes lit up and the corners of his lips quirked. “Is that raspberry?” he asked, pointing to the back corner. Maribel nodded, and glanced knowingly at Grantaire, who felt the blush rising up his cheeks. 

“Yeah, it is,” Grantaire said. His voice cracked at the end, and Maribel stifled a giggle. 

“Two raspberry cones, then?” She already had her gloved hand on two cones, eyes flicking between them. 

Enjolras turned to look at him. “You like raspberry?” His voice was incredulous, and Grantaire burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the empty room. 

“How on _Earth_ is that the thing that surprises you right now, seriously?” 

“I don’t know, I pegged you for, like, a Rocky Road, or a peanut butter guy, can you blame me?” 

Grantaire pulled a face, digging for money in his wallet. “Rocky Road has too much stuff in it, and I have a thing against peanut butter.” He traded a five-dollar bill to Maribel in exchange for a cone of raspberry and licked around the top, eyes slipping closed. Papi’s made _really_ good raspberry ice cream, sweet and tart and creamy. 

Enjolras snorted, and Grantaire’s eyes shot back open. “What sort of a _thing_? You don’t like the flavour?” He set his money on the counter and smiled gratefully at Maribel, who picked up the bills with a return smile and reached for her rag again. 

“No,” he said, “I just don’t like the concept of it.” 

He blinked at him, before pensively taking a lick from his cone. “The concept of peanut butter.” His tone was measured, and he looked Grantaire up and down. “What _about_ the concept of peanut butter?” 

“See ya soon, Maribel! We’ve gotta go get working.” Grantaire said cheerfully, waving over his shoulder. 

“Oh,” she said, surprise tinging her voice, “I thought this was just for fun. Well, have fun anyways, you two, but, uh, not _too_ much fun, eh?” She tossed a wink at Grantaire before crouching out of sight behind the counter. 

He blushed, then noticed how much more he’d been blushing around Enjolras. “Love you, man,” he shouted to her, but her response was eaten up in the clang of the bell over the door. The car doors clicked as he unlocked them, and they settled back into Grantaire’s car, wrapping napkins around their cones before he put the car in reverse. 

“Really, though, what do you have against peanut butter?” Enjolras asked once they were safely out of the parking lot. “It’s protein-rich, good for vegetarian options, seriously, Grantaire.” 

A drip began to roll down the side of the cone, and he picked it up with his tongue. “Nothing against peanut butter, I love the stuff, but peanut butter ice cream has atrocious vibes, so I don’t like the concept of it.” 

He could feel Enjolras’s eyes on him. “You’re judging ice cream by its vibes?” 

“Yup,” he said, popping the ending and smirking. “It’s got bad vibes.” 

Enjolras just shook his head and smiled. “Y’know, I missed this,” he said, biting the top of his ice cream. 

Grantaire started, foot jerking off the accelerator. “Missed me arguing with you about pointless nonsense?” 

Enjolras nodded slightly, looking Grantaire anywhere but in the eyes, and Grantaire smiled in spite of himself, the faintest bubbles of hope rising in his chest. “Missed it, too,” he said quietly. “We’re about five minutes out, what time do you have to be back home?” 

“Whenever, really, my parents are cool with me being out late and I told them earlier I’d be over at your house until we got enough done,” he said. “Which, speaking of, we should really get all of our research done and see how much of the rest of the week we’ll need to use to practice before we work with Courf and ‘Ferre.” 

“Yeah, that’s good. I’m gonna warn you, my parents probably aren’t home right now—”

“Ooooh,” Enjolras cut in, grinning devilishly. 

Grantaire reached across the center console to punch him lightly on the arm. “Shut up, Apollo,” he said, but his mind had kicked into overdrive. _Why would Enjolras make that joke? He does know what it means, right?_ Shaking his head lightly, as if to clear the thought away, he flicked on the turn signal to turn into his neighborhood. “Almost there, and as I was saying, they’re probably not home so we can work wherever. My sister’s at a friend’s house.”

He simply nodded, eyes still twinkling. 

The car clunked into the driveway, and the boys dug their backpacks from the trunk. 

Enjolras walked up the path to the door behind him, and his house keys jangled against the door as Grantaire missed the keyhole on the first three tries. Eventually, though, the key slid into the lock, and he shouldered his way through the door. 

“Shoes off, please,” he said, toeing his off by the door. “Where do you wanna work? There’s out here, the kitchen—oh, do you want something to drink?” He gestured vaguely to the kitchen. “We’ve got, uh, water, mostly, hot tea, maybe something else, but my sister’ll drink all of anything sweet if we keep it around, so…” 

“Tea sounds great, thanks, and do you want to work in your room?” His voice was tentative, so unlike usual, and Grantaire was taken aback. “Just so that if your family does come home, we don’t bother them,” he added, tripping over the words. 

Grantaire laughed, pulling two teacups from the cupboard. “Yeah, sounds good, but please excuse the mess, alright?” He mentally ran over everything out of place in his room: the unmade bed, the pants in a pile on the chair, the drawings pinned up crookedly on the walls, all the signs that a living, breathing teenage boy lived there. The microwave hummed, two cups spinning slowly inside, and he leaned back against the counter. Enjolras stood a few feet away, stiff and uncertain-looking. 

“The house won’t bite, Apollo, it’s alright to relax, I promise.” He patted the counter next to him, and Enjolras looked at him like he’d sprouted a second head. Just then, the microwave beeped, and Enjolras jumped out of his skin. “What’s got you so jumpy, you’re never this nervous?” 

He frowned. “Nothing, just out of sorts. Shall we?” 

With a grand gesture to the hallway behind him, precariously balancing the teacups on his other hand, and led Enjolras into his room, pushing the door open with his hip. “Uh, sit anywhere, bed’s probably best if you shove the stuff to the side, but I’m gonna be on the floor.” 

His eyes fell more discerningly on the piles in his room, the stacks of books he’d been meaning to read, the guitar in the corner that was probably hopelessly out of tune, before flickering back over to Enjolras, who was settling down leaning against the foot of the bed, between a stack of old art magazines and school papers. “Come on, let’s get started.” His voice was back to normal, powerful and smooth, and Grantaire dropped to the floor an arm’s-length away and rifled through his bag, digging out his laptop. He slid one of the teacups across the carpet as he did, and Enjolras wrapped his hand around it, fingers brushing over Grantaire’s knuckles. Grantaire gasped quietly, little more than a quick inhalation, but Enjolras looked up at him and smiled. 

“We should work.” 

Enjolras hummed, opening his laptop and giving Grantaire another moment to study the stickers. “What’re the quotes for?” he asked, nodding vaguely towards the computer. 

He turned it around to point them out. This one here, it’s from a book. ‘It was a pleasure to burn,’ it’s from—” 

“ _Fahrenheit 451_ , yeah, that’s one of my favorite books, look,” Grantaire said, and he reached for the nightstand, “I’m rereading it now.” 

Enjolras’s face lit up, and he pushed his laptop to the side, turning so he was almost knee-to-knee with Grantaire. “Really? It’s my favorite, that _ending_... it’s perfect.”

Grantaire nodded, shifting so his knee brushed against Enjolras’s. “Impermanence, the scariest thing of all, right?” 

He smiled softly. “Right.” 

The quiet slipped back between them, comfortable and thick, two boys regarding each other levelly, before Grantaire broke the silence. “So Courfeyrac told me that you’re gay.” _And what a way to break a silence, man,_ he berated silently. 

He didn’t look taken aback, just reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “Yeah, at the most basic level, though in general the whole ‘attraction’ thing takes friendship, or, like, connection first, but… yeah, gay. Basically.” His eyes moved imperceptibly, and then he was staring through Grantaire’s own muddy brown ones, raking him from the inside out, the weight of something he dared not say behind his gaze. 

Grantaire nodded sagely, feeling the blush coloring high on his cheeks. “That’s, um. That’s neat. I’m bi, but you know that, I think, um.” He took a deep breath, about to restart the sentence with a prayer for eloquence, when Enjolras placed a warm hand on his leg and Grantaire’s mind dissolved into golden sparks. 

“Grantaire. Breathe,” he said, looking at him earnestly. “Deep breaths.” 

He obliged, pulling air into his lungs, trying his best to ignore that it smelled like Enjolras layered over everything familiar. 

“Two more,” Enjolras prompted, and he followed, taking two more deep breaths as his central processor went about resetting to allow for rational thought. “Good. Now. Privatization of prisons.” 

Grantaire stared him in the eye for a moment more before the sincerity in their depths lost its power and he dissolved into a fit of giggles. Within moments, Enjolras followed suit, and by the time their laughter fizzled into bursts of chuckling aftershocks, they were red-faced and breathing hard. 

And Enjolras’s hand was still very much on Grantaire’s knee. 

“God, Apollo, we’re never going to get anything done,” he said, and taking a last moment to enjoy the warmth of Enjolras’s skin through his jeans, he lifted onto his knees to move to sit beside him. “Now. Privatization of prisons.” He matched the inflection Enjolras had used, trying to harden his eyes to resemble the boy’s. “Prisons that are made private. Private prisons. The poison for Kuzco. Kuzco’s poison,” he tacked on, mouth already lifting into a sly smile. 

Enjolras’s brow crinkled. “Wait, what?” 

“Oh my god,” Grantaire said, mouth hanging slightly open. “No way you haven’t seen Emperor’s New Groove.” 

“Nope.” 

“I don’t believe it.” 

“What is it?” Enjolras asked, “what’s it about?” 

Grantaire considered whether he could explain the plot with any accuracy, before settling on scooping up his laptop, taking a sip of his tea, and taking to YouTube. 

Ten minutes later, he had deemed Enjolras educated enough. 

“It’s about a llama.” He seemed unimpressed. “A prince turned into a llama…”

“...Who learns to be a good person! Yes! Okay, now that you’ve been sufficiently cultured, we should really get to work, it’s nearly five.” 

With that, Grantaire had turned on some music ( _real_ music, classic rock, not the pop songs they’d had in the car) and they fell into comfortable silence, broken only by Grantaire’s quiet humming, the clack of computer keys, and the occasional clink of a teacup back into a saucer. It was familiar in a way he’d never expected them to be, and it allowed his fantasies to run wild as he snuck peeks out of the corner of his eye at the set of Enjolras’s mouth as he scanned webpages for facts. Ever-so-gradually, the two boys inched closer, shoulders slanting to meet until they finally did and Grantaire braced himself for Enjolras to jump away. He didn’t, just relaxed against Grantaire’s arm and continued working. 

They stayed that way, steadily growing their document full of facts and sources and statistics long enough for Grantaire’s foot to fall sound asleep, and as he started rolling his ankle to wake it up, Enjolras stretched beside him and he heard a quiet _thwack_ , followed by a sound of surprise from Enjolras and the _thud_ of a sketchbook hitting the floor. The cool air of the room hit his skin for the first time in hours as Enjolras leaned around the side of the bed to pick up the sketchbook, but when he leaned back his brow was set in confusion. 

“Hey, Grantaire?” he asked. His voice sounded hesitant, unsure. 

“Mmm?”

“Is this… me?” 

Grantaire’s blood ran cold under his skin. He remembered last night, spending an hour drawing the boy’s fine features in pencil in the sketchbook. He remembered this morning, tossing it back onto his bed rather than closing it and stowing it away in a drawer. 

Enjolras was studying the drawings. “These are amazing, really, but why me?” He didn’t sound judgemental or angry, just quietly impressed. “I never knew you could draw like this.” 

His mind ticked over all the reasons why he’d been drawing Enjolras. _Because you’re beautiful. Because you’re my inspiration. Because I can’t get you out of my head._ But instead of any of those, he simply said, “Why _not_ you? You’re damn fun to draw, Apollo, perfect for my study of the Greek gods,” and plucked his sketchbook from the boy’s hands, flipping back to the cover and setting it behind him on the bed. 

Enjolras was studying him again. “Why do you insist on calling me Apollo, Grantaire?” 

Once again, Grantaire chose not to answer, in favor of saying, “It’s getting pretty late and we got some good work done, do you want me to drive you home?” 

He sighed, exasperated, but put his laptop back in his backpack and got to his feet, offering a hand down to help Grantaire up. “Thanks, you remember where I live, right?” 

Grantaire nodded before taking Enjolras’s hand, and the boy pulled him upright quickly, so quickly that he stumbled and nearly knocked them both over backwards. As it was, they found themselves face-to face, Grantaire’s hand instinctively around Enjolras’s back to keep him upright. 

For a moment, they didn’t move, just stood precariously balanced, until Grantaire stepped back, releasing Enjolras’s hand and savouring the tingle it sent across his fingertips. 

The drive to Enjolras’s was uneventful, quiet music to accompany the thoughts pounding through Grantaire’s head. The memory of Enjolras’s hand in his. The way he smelled, warm and comfortable next to him on the floor. The loose curls that popped away from his bun gradually, falling in waterfalls around his cheeks. Everything that had happened, the work they had accomplished, and how it probably wasn’t enough to avoid Enjolras coming over every day for the rest of the week. He felt a simultaneous rush of excitement and apprehension course through him: on the one hand, it meant him and Enjolras, alone, working even more. On the other hand, it meant him and Enjolras, alone, working more and not at all making out like Grantaire’s wildest wishes wanted. 

“Turn here,” Enjolras reminded, and it snapped Grantaire from thinking in time for him to make the turn. 

He pulled into Enjolras’s driveway as the sun set, and the colors on the pride flag glowed. “Is the pride flag for you or for your parents?” he asked, jerking his head towards it. 

“For me. They got it the day after I came out, I guess they really wanted to support me, which… is nice, I suppose.” 

Grantaire turned in the seat, propping his elbow on the steering wheel to smile at him. “It really is. Today was fun, I’m glad we got work done.” 

Enjolras nodded fervently. “For sure, though we’re nowhere where we should be.” He glanced out the window, apparently thinking for a moment. “But, yeah, thank you for this. The ice cream and all, and letting us work at your house, and driving me home.” 

“No need to thank me, always a pleasure to spend time with you.” He heard the emotion that had seeped into his voice as soon as he said it, and narrowly missed pulling a face. That wasn’t him. _Right?_ He was never that sappy, even in regards to Enjolras. But apparently, he was, and Enjolras was hesitating getting out of the car, looking for all the world as though there was something more he wanted to say. Maybe that was the natural state of his face, though; it certainly seemed it to Grantaire. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Grantaire,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out. 

He didn’t think it was going to be possible to get tired of hearing his name roll off of Enjolras’s tongue, and as he backed out, watching to be sure Enjolras made it through the front door, he found himself smiling giddily in spite of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ran a little bit long for what I've been keeping this fic to, but there were THINGS to be SAID. Thank you so much for reading, and please drop some kudos or some yelling in a comment if you liked it! I love talking to people! 
> 
> _Fahrenheit 451_ is one of my favorite books, and I figured the whole "everything steadily being revealed as actually awful" thing would be right up these two's alley. Additionally, I'm considering going back and adding chapter titles to this fic... what do you think? 
> 
> I’m [here](https://catstrophysics.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, feel free to drop by and chat!


	7. Chapter 7

Dr. Mabeuf’s room buzzed louder than usual, voices overlapping as Grantaire wove through the desks to get to Éponine, who was buried in conversation with Jehan. He caught the name of an author he vaguely recognized before their words broke off in greeting to him as he pulled a chair around to sit backwards in. 

“Hey, R,” Jehan said, their voice weighted. “You look exhausted, do you want some coffee? I’ve got enough for you, too, it’s the really strong stuff, too.” Their eyes had glazed over, and as Grantaire made eye contact as best as he could—Jehan was, in fact, looking somewhere off in the middle distance, so “contact” was rather hard to achieve— he leaned over to Éponine. 

“When was the last time they slept?” he asked, accepting and she merely shook her head in response, gently wresting the thermos from Jehan’s hands and setting it on the corner of her desk. “Lovely. 

“When was the last time _you_ slept, man? So, what were _you_ up to last night, eh?” she asked, voice lilting with teasing. “Did you and Enjolras get up to anything?” She elbowed him lightly in the ribs, and he swatted her elbow away gently. 

He shot a glance across the room, eyes drawn straight to Enjolras’s blond head, his hands in motion as he debated with Combeferre, whose chin rested in his hands, pensieve. Grantaire stifled a grin. “I took him to Papi’s,” he began before Éponine broke in, a sly grin creeping up her face. 

“Did Maribel think you guys were together? She _totally_ did, I bet.” 

Grantaire crossed his arms, eyes raking over the plants behind Jehan as he remembered. “Maybe? I’m not really sure, but it’s not like he treats me like that, or anything. Well—” he broke off, unfolding his arms to run his hands through his hair. “There were a couple things that happened, I guess, he sort of… like, touched my knee? And helped me up off the floor? And, oh my God, Éponine, we like the same flavour of ice cream.” 

“It’s destiny,” she said, and, for once, there was no hint of sarcasm in her voice. “I’m happy for you, man, really.” 

He frowned at her. “How’re you feeling about the whole,” he glanced around quickly to be sure no one was in earshot but Jehan, whose mind appeared to be elsewhere as they had taken to reciting something under their breath, “Marius thing?” 

Her lips quirked downward for a split second, before she shrugged. “Used to it. They’re happy, I guess. How’s your crossfire coming? You and Joly making any progress?”

Joly walked into the room with the bell at that moment and made his way over to them slowly, leaning his cane against his chair. “Hey R, we’re actually doing really well, and Bossuet and ‘Chetta’s bit’s coming along nicely.” A look of discomfort invaded his face as he shifted his weight, readjusting his leg. 

Grantaire smiled at him, the warm glow of Joly’s ease filling him. It was a minor miracle how quickly the Amis had accepted him again. He stood up, swinging a leg over the chair to get out of the way and relocating Jehan’s thermos of coffee to their desk, which they tossed him a grateful smile for before downing half of it, sighing loudly as they lowered the beaten metal cup back to the desk with a thud. “Good on you that it’s going well, can’t wait to hear it.” 

Enjolras’s corner of the room seemed charged with a different sort of energy, apprehension sparking from Courfeyrac and resigned curiosity seeping out from Combeferre, despite his best attempts to look invested in his work. Grantaire slid into the open seat next to Enjolras, whose head snapped up as he sat and raked him over quickly. 

“Mornin’, Apollo,” Grantaire said, grinning cheekily, “looking radiant as ever, I see.” 

“Good morning, Grantaire, looking marginally more engaged than usual, I see.” 

Grantaire barked out a laugh at the response as a warm bud of joy blossomed in his chest. Enjolras had joked back, in his own stoic manner, and the mild shock etched across Courfeyrac’s face determined this was abnormal for them. 

“Ah, Jehan offered me some of their coffee, which may well be radioactive but it hasn’t killed me yet. What’s your excuse?” 

“I woke up like this,” he deadpanned. Courfeyrac exploded into peals of laughter, and even Combeferre added his own low, rumbly chuckle to the mix. 

“Damn, R, what did you _do_ to him yesterday, seriously? Last time I was in a mood that nice I’d just gotten lai—” he cut off quickly, ducking his head sheepishly at Combeferre, who smiled indulgently before pecking him on the forehead. Grantaire felt a sharp pang of want in his chest, harsh and penetrating. He briefly entertained the image of Enjolras doing the same to him, his lips pressed between his brows for a split second before pulling away, smiling softly, smiling just for him. 

“Goooood moooorning!” Dr. Mabeuf cheered. “Hope you’ve all been making progress on your projects! Today we’ve got a shortened class,” _wait, what?_ , “so I’m going to give y’all this time to work, okay? Okay! Get to it.” He swung around in his desk chair, bending over before pulling a comically large watering can decorated with neon-painted flowers out and running a hand over it. “And I’m going to tend to the arboretum.” 

Jehan laughed from the other side of the room before silencing themself and taking another sip of coffee. Grantaire watched Éponine pull her chair over to Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, and it dawned on him that no other group had rearranged their seating for the project, just him. Moved closer to Enjolras, where he was ostensibly expected to be. His whole body felt too hot, then, run through with spikes of fire, and he pulled his beanie off and ran a hand through his hair. 

“So, we should go over what each group has gotten accomplished, yeah?” Courfeyrac asked. Combeferre nodded, and took over. 

“Courf and I have most of our script and argument laid out, and just need to practice that. I’ve shared it with both of you already to go over, if you like, but I don’t think there’s much more to be done to it, really.” He grinned at Courfeyrac, who shot him a quick wink backwards. “What did you two get done yesterday?” 

Grantaire considered asking how they knew that he and Enjolras had been together before deciding against it. “We’ve ironed out pretty much all of our research, but no dice on the script yet. Enjolras and I’re gonna get together today, too, probably, and iron that out, yeah?” He looked to Enjolras for confirmation, and found the boy staring intently back at him, eyes fixed on his face. “Apollo?” 

Enjolras cleared his throat. “Uh—um, yeah, today. Together. Right,” he stammered. “Grantaire, you used my name. You never use my name,” he said in an undertone, looking out of the corner of his eye at Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who had stopped listening after Grantaire’s summary and appeared to be refining points of their own argument. 

“It’s a good name,” he said, and the wave of satisfaction at how flustered Enjolras became, watching the blush flood his cheeks in a moment, was drowned out by the pounding of his heart and the cacophony of thoughts. _Was that too far?_

But Enjolras grinned at him, placing his hand atop Grantaire’s own, and then it was Grantaire’s turn for his face to heat up instantly. Behind Enjolras, Courfeyrac gaped at the place where their hands met, his eyes wide, and Grantaire felt the heat of his gaze on his face. 

“Do you want to come over after school?” he blurted, then smiled uncertainly as Enjolras’s eyes widened. “To work, I mean.” 

He nodded, the beginnings of a grin stretching his cheeks, before asking, soft enough that Courfeyrac and Combeferre didn’t hear, “Can we go get ice cream again?” 

Grantaire’s breath caught in his throat, and the feeling hung there through the rest of the day as the moment replayed in his mind. The clear blue sincerity in Enjolras’s eyes as he asked him— _not out on a date,_ Grantaire had to remind himself every few minutes. _For ice cream, when they were working, to finish a project that was coming due, because even though he might not hate him anymore they still weren’t friends._

__And they _certainly_ weren’t whatever it was Grantaire’s heart kept hoping at, hoping when Enjolras touched his hand it was more than casual, was a push towards something more. That when he caught Grantaire as he tripped, arm slipping so casually around his back, he’d feel it again one day, intentionally. _ _

***

__Daydreams, of course, wild fantasies, but as he walked out to the parking lot, looking for the boy leaning against his familiar post, they ran through his head at a million miles an hour, stumbling over each other and crashing into his thoughts as he tried desperately to reorganize his mind before saying anything to Enjolras._ _

__Who, of course, gave him a wide, open smile, so gloriously unlike how he’d looked at him just days before, something softer hinting at the edges of his eyes, and Grantaire’s heart leapt into speculation again._ _

__“Ready?” he asked, and thank God his voice didn’t crack, that ‘I love you’ didn’t spill out over his lips, that he didn’t say anything wildly incriminating._ _

__Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him, his expression inscrutable. “Of course,” he said, and then added, “ice cream?”_ _

__Grantaire laughed, and the walk out to his car felt so much shorter than before. His ribs ached from laughing, defending his dislike of peanut butter ice cream, and as Enjolras tossed his backpack in the back of the car, he had the fleeting thought that this was something he could get used to; no animosity, no tense undertone to their debating._ _

__They both got raspberry, again, and Maribel shot Grantaire one of her looks that said “we’re talking more about _him_ later,” which he brushed off in favor of stifling a laugh. _ _

__“What?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire broke down in giggles before handing him a napkin. “Oh,” he said, before rubbing the dab of bright red ice cream off of his nose._ _

__Then they were driving, again, and Grantaire’s attention was split between driving, the dry quips Enjolras kept responding with— _since when was he so funny?_ —and pushing his heart’s quiet whispers of _imagine if this was a date_ and _he’s smiling at you_ to the back of his mind. He pulled into the driveway, vaguely noting this might be the fastest he’s ever gotten home even with the trip to Papi’s (or at least it _felt_ like the fastest), and unlocked the doors. _ _

__“Project time!” he announced, sing-song, and Enjolras exhaled sharply through his nose._ _

__“Project time,” he agreed, before stepping aside to let Grantaire unlock the front door._ _

__Same as usual, Grantaire dropped his shoes by the door and Enjolras followed suit._ _

__“Let me text my, uh, dad really quick,” he said as he pulled out his phone, “then we can go back to your room?”_ _

__Grantaire nodded and set about fixing tea in the kitchen, pulling the same deep red mug from the cupboard for Enjolras as last time, humming as he went. He kept half an eye on Enjolras, leaned against the counter, furiously texting away._ _

__“Your dad good with everything?” he checked, pouring a dash of cream into both their cups. Enjolras looked up, startled, a vague expression of guilt settling across his features._ _

__“Er, yeah.” He tucked the phone back into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. “Ready?”_ _

__Grantaire nodded, moved to lead the way back to his bedroom, but ended up walking straight into Enjolras’s shoulder instead, catching a whiff of the distinctly Enjolras scent that hung in a faint cloud around him. Sharp, and warm, and bright. He stumbled back, rubbing at his nose where it had smacked into Enjolras’s shoulder blade. They made eye contact for a split second that stretched on, spreading across the space between them, still far too close. Enjolras opened his mouth to say something, but Grantaire stepped back first, rubbing at the back of his neck, before edging past him to the bedroom._ _

__He sat down on the edge of the bed for a moment, before sliding to the floor, not really caring if Enjolras walked through the door and saw him. Slowly, he stretched his legs out as wide as they would go, nearly completely straight, and let his body relax down to the floor, tension melting out of his shoulders. He hadn’t had time to dance, or to paint, or to really do anything much lately, so when the door creaked open he really couldn’t be bothered to pull himself up from the deep stretch._ _

__Enjolras made a noise of surprise, before Grantaire heard him set his backpack down against the wall. “You’re really, uh,” he said. “You’re really flexible. Is it because you dance?”_ _

__Grantaire’s entire body went cold, splayed out on the floor._ _

__The blond ponytail he’d seen whip away from the window._ _

__It hadn’t been a cheerleader at all._ _

___Enjolras._ _ _

__He took a moment to stay sprawled out on the floor, the tingling burn in his quads anchoring his thoughts to reality. Then, with a groan, he rolled upright and fixed Enjolras with a level gaze, settling his legs together in a loose butterfly position._ _

__“Yes,” he said, “it’s because I dance.”_ _

__Enjolras made a quiet choked sound. “You’re quite good,” he said lamely. The implication of when he’d seen him slipped by the wayside, and Grantaire let it go._ _

__“You’re not going to make fun of me?” He felt open, vulnerable, and yet there was no true fear that Enjolras would, cemented in his head by the caution in the boy’s eyes._ _

__Rather than say anything, Enjolras simply sat down across from him and pulled out his laptop, leaving it closed atop his legs. He shook his head nearly imperceptibly, and Grantaire felt a wave of warmth flood over him. They both settled down to their work—editing the script today, so that they could start rehearsing the next—and Grantaire unfolded his legs, leaning back against the side of the bed._ _

__“I think it’s really cool.”_ _

__Grantaire looked up. Enjolras’s eyes were still fixed on his laptop, but there was a blush spreading up his entire face._ _

__“I could teach you, sometime, you know,” he said, and Enjolras grinned, looking up._ _

__“I’d like that.”_ _

____

***

Hours ticked by with both of them working, silently growing and changing their script, waterproofing it with facts. Enjolras would look up, fixated on something behind Grantaire, and gesture for a few seconds, mouthing words, before furiously typing again.

Grantaire, personally, found his thinking face adorable, and peeked at him from under his lashes when he was lost in thought before tucking his head back down to work.

Just as Grantaire was finishing up what he felt was an adequate amount of information for his part, Enjolras sighed heavily before flicking his laptop closed with a _snap._

“It’s just not fucking _fair,_ you know?” he said, the familiar blaze in his eyes, and Grantaire settled in to listen. “Private prisons, I mean.” 

Grantaire made a vague noise of assent, and Enjolras catapulted into action. 

“They prioritize profit over the wellbeing of the prisoners because of the government subsidies, so there’s already an incentive to pack cells that way, and there’s no incentive for rehabilitation because their industry _relies_ on recidivism rates staying high so they’re paid better just by having warm bodies filling up their prisons. How messed up is that?” He ran his hands through his hair and flyaway curls stood up in their wake. Grantaire catalogued away the pronunciation of ‘recidivism’ as Enjolras soldiered on. 

“Furthermore, private prisons allow much more room for bribery. I mean, come on, we can’t even keep our government free of corruption, you expect a for-profit business to do so?” He scoffed. “They’re shown to be more corrupt and not even higher quality, due to the need to pack the goddamn rosters, and anyways, punishment of criminals—not that everyone sent to prison deserves to be there, I mean, look at me—”

“Wait, what?” Grantaire cut in. “Prison?”

Enjolras paused. “It was _one_ overnight hold, and it was just because I wouldn’t back down at a protest once. Nothing serious, but come on, that’s free speech, and I was sixteen.” 

He let it go for the moment, gesturing for Enjolras to continue his impassioned speech, but mentally filed away that Enjolras had been taken to prison for his morals once. 

“—there’s also so much wrong with how private prisons are run, they’re less likely to do work assignments for prisoners which encourages misconduct, and they’re often so understaffed due to the showrunners wanting to profit that there’s next to no security I mean, _come on_ , this system is the worst thing to happen to the penitentiary institution since the guillotine. And I hate that we got the other side of this argument, because if you haven’t noticed, not a single point I just made can be used to further our argument and it’s exactly what Combeferre and Courfeyrac are probably going to say and I am _furious._ ” 

His hands flopped back down to his sides before he buried his face in his hands. “Sorry, um.” His shoulders heaved as he pulled in a deep breath. “I promised myself I wouldn’t get that angry about this but it’s just… it makes me so, so mad.” 

Grantaire slid his laptop off to the side and shuffled over to sit closer to Enjolras. “I don’t like it any more than you do,” he said in a low tone, “but we do need to do well on this crossfire debate, so we’re going to suck it up and do our best, right?” 

Enjolras nodded, lips slightly parted as he still caught his breath from his speech, and Grantaire caught himself staring for a moment. 

“Do you, uh,” he began, still staring at Enjolras’s mouth, “do you need to get home soon? It’s getting pretty late, and we got a ton done.” His eyes flicked up to Enjolras’s, and they held for another eternal second. 

Enjolras swallowed. “Yeah, probably,” he said. 

They got into Grantaire’s car again, and he turned on quiet music before pulling out of the driveway. Enjolras’s hand lay palm-up on the centre console, and as Grantaire turned out onto the main road, heart in his throat, he placed his own fingers atop Enjolras’s, more a suggestion of a touch than anything, and waited. 

He drove for a few more minutes before slowly, deftly, warm fingers wrapped around his hand, and he took his eyes off the road before him to glance at their hands. 

Enjolras squeezed his hand ever-so-gently. 

The air disappeared from the car, sucked out through the vents and replaced with the tenuous pounding of their hearts. 

Grantaire squeezed back. 

He turned onto the short street to Enjolras’s house, contemplating slowing the car down to a crawl for the few more seconds it would grant him with Enjolras’s hand in his. 

He didn’t, but he thought about it. 

When they were safely in the driveway, the ignition off and the trunk opening to get his backpack out, Grantaire found himself getting out of the car without any real need to, walking peaceably alongside Enjolras to the front door, their knuckles brushing and sending tiny, electric jolts up Grantaire’s spine. 

Just before Enjolras opened the front door, he seemed to reconsider, dropping his hand from the handle before pulling Grantaire into him, wrapping his arms around him tightly. 

Grantaire started for a moment, before sliding his own arms cautiously to rest at the small of Enjolras’s back, tucking his face in against his shoulder, memorizing the sensation of them breathing against one another, the rise and fall of them together.

“I’m so glad we’re partners, Grantaire,” he whispered. “Wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else.” 

With that, he pulled his arms from around him slowly, regretfully, before turning the handle. 

On Grantaire’s part, he called Éponine as soon as he got in the car, waiting for her to pick up over speakerphone. 

“Ép, I think I love him,” he started, then amending: “Hi, Éponine, how was your day?” 

“Day’s not important, why the revelation now?” She sounded quiet, and he figured she was probably home, keeping her voice down. 

“He hugged me and I don’t think I’m thinking straight.” 

“You never think straight.”

He turned to glare at her for the pun before realizing she wasn’t in the car. “Point still stands. What do I do?” 

“Tell him? I dunno, man, that one’s up to you, you could always waste away staring at him, _oh wait that’s what you’ve been doing_.” There was sarcasm in her tone, but no real bite behind the words. “I have to go, Gavroche needs help with something, but for real, R, go with your gut. But don’t jeopardize your grade over this, okay?” 

She hung up without a goodbye, and he fought the urge to bash his head against the steering wheel. His right hand still tingled from where Enjolras’s hand had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading! If you've liked it this far, please drop some kudos and/or comments down below! 
> 
> Yes, this took me altogether too long to write. Yes, it is also longer than all the other chapters so far. No, I don't have any excuses other than my mental health got sketch and my classes got busy. But hey, here we are. Fun fact! With the posting of this chapter, I've officially broken 100,000 words posted to AO3 since posting my first fic last January 22, 2019. Here's to many more, I hope. 
> 
> I’m [here](https://catstrophysics.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, feel free to drop by and chat! Chapter shoutout goes to undesirableno394 on Tumblr; thank you for rambling with me.


	8. Chapter 8

Just as Grantaire tried to take a bite of a crisp apple, his beanie was yanked down over his eyes. 

“C’mon, Ép,” he grumbled, and before he could reach back to restore his vision, another pair of hands beat him there. He looked up, expecting Éponine to have adjusted it in penance, but instead found Enjolras’s hand pulling away quickly, eyes focused anywhere but Grantaire as he fiddled with the pocket of his sweatshirt. 

“So!” Courfeyrac began before Grantaire could address , a devilish grin spreading across his face as he thumbed over Combeferre’s knuckles, “how’ve you two been?” His eyes twinkled, and he wiggled his eyebrows knowingly at Grantaire, who had to choke down the urge to stammer out an answer. 

Enjolras frowned beside him. “Nothing, really, we’ve been making really good progress on the debate, though I’m not sure when we’re next going to get together to work on it.” His frown deepened, and he turned to Grantaire, mouth already open to say something, when Grantaire cut in. 

“Tonight?” 

His jaw snapped shut, and he thought for a second. “What’re we going to do?” 

It was Combeferre’s turn to step in, adjusting the set of his glasses on the bridge of his nose with a casual touch. “Have you started actually rehearsing it yet? Courf and I have been doing that for a while, now, and it’d be a shame if we were much better prepared than you. I’d like to win this fair, after all,” he finished with a coy smile. 

“I’m sure rehearsing’s _all_ you’ve been doing, eh?” Grantaire muttered, and beside him Enjolras stifled a laugh as the boys across from them blushed simultaneously, Combeferre’s dark skin deepening as the freckles across Courfeyrac’s nose stood out. 

“Rehearsing, making out, same thing, really, yeah?” Enjolras said, and it was Grantaire’s turn to laugh a bit hysterically as a grin broke out across Enjolras’s mouth, and he had to quash the urge to kiss it away. 

“For sure.” Courfeyrac popped a chip off of Grantaire’s plate into his mouth as a close to the conversation, before turning to reply to a question posed at the other end of the table. “No, Bossuet, I’m pretty sure you’ll be just fine if you sprained your wrist, they’re practically elastic by now.” 

“That’s the _problem_ ,” Joly cut in, cheeks flushed with passion, “his wrists can’t take this anymore, at this rate, yeah?” There was a general murmur of assent from the table, and Combeferre pulled his phone out to check something. 

It was a strange form of camaraderie, twining between the baker’s dozen bodies at the table, and Grantaire found himself basking in it. He couldn’t properly remember a time before he sat with Les Amis at lunch—well, he _could_ , with sparks of regret at the memory of his and Éponine’s table in the far corner. A water bottle tapped him on the arm, and without thinking, he twisted it open and handed it back to Cosette next to him. Second nature to help her, to ensnare himself in this group. 

His musings were broken by an “a- _ha!_ ” from Combeferre, who cleared his throat and began to cite something off his phone to Bossuet, who listened eagerly, with Courfeyrac paying even more attention to his boyfriend. 

A pang of longing echoed through Grantaire’s heart, largely directed at the boy beside him, who was absently twisting braids into the strings of his red sweatshirt. He pushed it to the back of his mind and turned his thoughts to Combeferre, who was explaining something about ligaments and strains and fatigue that appeared to only make sense to Joly, who translated hushedly to Bossuet, who nodded appreciatively. 

Enjolras nudged him with his elbow, and a tingle of electricity coursed through his body. He cocked his head for Grantaire to lean up closer, brows furrowed in concern, an expression so unlike his normal collected features. 

His breath on Grantaire’s ear was warm and dizzying enough that Grantaire almost missed what he was saying. “Can we get ice cream again?” 

Then he leaned back, a smile set across his lips, and Grantaire thought in that moment he would have done anything to keep that smile where it was, private just for him. 

He found himself smirking, citing an age-old joke instead of a real answer. “I dunno, _can_ we?” 

It had been a while since Enjolras looked like he wanted to slam his fist into Grantaire’s face. Apparently, he’d missed the expression; annoyance did something gorgeous to his eyes, sending white sparks through them, and he found himself smiling in spite of himself. 

“Ah, Apollo,” he said, a lament more than anything, standing up from the table just as the bell rang and the cafeteria burst into motion around him.

***

The day skipped by with all the force of the wind, tumbling leaves around the corners of the school. He got a test back in Spanish, comparing his 98 with Jehan’s; somehow, they always managed to miss different questions. Last period came just soon enough, a free 50 minutes for him to do whatever he pleased, and he dug out his phone in the corridor to skim his notifications and shoot a message to Enjolras.

>>you: _I’ve got last period free today, if you want to head out early i’ll be in the dance room. x._

He shucked his bag and his shoes at the door, pressing play on his music as he languidly stretched. His hips popped as he spread out wider, tension twanging at the muscles, and he winced. Slowly, he laid his chest flat to the floor, feeling the knots in his lower back twist and inch closer to releasing. A deep sigh drained from his lungs as he relaxed into the stretch. 

“Oh! Um,” Enjolras’s voice came from the general direction of the door, “I can, er, leave you? If you want?” 

Grantaire pulled himself upright gracefully and switched position to pull one arm behind his head. “Nah, all good, d’you wanna head out now?” For a moment, he regretted telling Enjolras they could leave early; he’d been looking forward to working out for a good part of the day. Priorities, though, and ice cream with Enjolras beat out most other things. 

Enjolras didn’t answer, instead looking around the mirrored room with a vague sense of wonder. 

“Apollo? Do you want to go now? Or are you hoping I’ll give you a dance lesson?” His voice was sarcasm-laden, and he thought it had been obvious, but Enjolras’s features lit up. 

“Will you really teach me?” He sounded excited, voice full of the barely-contained joy of a child, and _oh_ , Grantaire really wished he could say no, but he wanted this so badly. 

“Help me up, and you’ve got a deal.” He held his hands up, and had Enjolras had just slightly less poise, he would have been bouncing on the balls of his feet. “What do you want to learn? Ballet? Hip-hop?” 

“Teach me to waltz,” he said, softly but certainly. “Please.” 

Grantaire had had this dream before. Him and Enjolras, waltzing to that song from Sleeping Beauty, lights dimmed. More often than not, it happened in an actual venue—he was hesitant to admit the number of times a wedding reception had crossed his mind—but regardless, Enjolras always looked the same: radiant as the sun. 

The same as he looked here, hair pulled back in a loose bun, shoulders set back with the confidence that only comes with always knowing what you’re fighting for. Intoxicating. And then he pulled his sweatshirt off over his head in one motion, sweeping it to the side with the careless ease that comes with practice, and the flyaways that curled around his forehead stood straight up. Grantaire’s heart did something he wasn’t sure he’d encountered before, a flip-flop sensation that intensified when his eyes roamed over the black t-shirt Enjolras had had on under his hoodie, that clung to the contours of his body in the best way possible. 

Enjolras was staring at him expectantly, hesitancy etched into his face, and his fingers came up to tug at the hem of his shirt absently. 

“Ready?” He was asking himself just as much as he was posing the question to Enjolras, as he tugged his phone out of his pocket and switched the music to something a little more fitting. 

“As I’ll ever be.” 

Grantaire let his mind slip into a more professional mindset; he could teach someone to dance, no problem. _Even when that someone was Enjolras, standing before him, the most nervous he’d seen him that he could remember._

“Okay! So, um,” he stepped closer, and Enjolras moved to meet him, “first, you’re going to… Oh, I’m going to lead, aren’t I? Actually, how much do you know about dancing?” His mind floundered, grasping for whatever he could cling to, and Enjolras was solid before him, as always, statuesque even in his uncertainty. 

“Nothing. And, yeah, you lead.” He held out his hands, fingers spread, and Grantaire felt the smallest smile quirk up the corners of his lips at how _earnest_ Enjolras was. 

He nodded, taking Enjolras’s wrist in his hand, and placing it on his shoulder before taking his outstretched right hand and clasping it with his own. His heart pounded in his throat, drowning out his thoughts with the rush of blood, and he didn’t let himself think a second more before setting his hand on Enjolras’s waist, curling his fingers around his side. 

“So, this is the position we’re going to want to be in,” he said, and Enjolras was close, _so_ close, and he smelled like cinnamon and warmth. “And it’s just a box step. So, I’m leading, which just means you’ll be stepping backwards first, and then we’ll both go to the side, then you step forward, then to the other side, and then repeat, okay?” Enjolras nodded, and Grantaire started to count them off. “One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, here-we-go,” and stepped forward. 

Enjolras didn’t step back. Grantaire ended up with a faceful of his hair before jerking away, muttering an apology.

“Okay, try again, one-two-three, one-two-three, ready-set-go.” This time, Enjolras did step, albeit tentative, and warmth blossomed in Grantaire’s chest as they began to move haltingly around the room in time with the music, Enjolras’s hand tightening on his own. “You’re getting it, good, loosen up, I won’t bite,” he said, and slipped his hand a little further around his back. Enjolras relaxed into the touch, and his steps evened out, flowing alongside Grantaire’s own more experienced movements. The song ended, and for a moment their steps faltered before the chorus of Once Upon A Dream swelled into motion, and the world fell into lock-step beside them. 

Enjolras’s hand curled around his neck, fingers lacing through his hair, and Grantaire fought the urge to make a quiet noise and break the breathless silence between them. They moved through the room as one, Grantaire carefully steering Enjolras backwards in a wide ring, watching behind him rather than watching _him_ until Enjolras tripped over his own feet and Grantaire kept them upright by the narrowest of margins. 

They caught each other’s eyes, finally, and broke into laughter. Joy set Enjolras’s eyes into motion, dancing fervently as he threw his head back. He moved to pull his hand away from Grantaire’s, and a pang of sadness zipped through his chest, before Enjolras dropped it to rest on his hip instead, lowering the hand off his shoulder to mirror on the other side. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, staring Grantaire intently in the eyes, and his lids slipped shut for a split second before he stepped back and went to gather his sweatshirt in his arms before pulling it back over his head. 

On Grantaire’s part, his mind was reeling, reaching out towards the space Enjolras had just vacated, but he pulled himself in, chastised himself with the reminder that this was a lesson between friends, nothing more, and any moment or emotion he’d felt had been fabricated completely within his own mind. 

“Day’s over, Grantaire, ice cream time,” Enjolras said, and he cocked his head towards the door. “I’m gonna text someone really quick, I’ll meet you outside.” With that, he stepped through the door and leaned against the wall, head bent towards his phone. 

The blond ponytail, scarcely visible through the window, sent a flash of déjà vu through his stomach, a reminder of days ago. 

He allowed himself a giddy grin before following Enjolras out through the door, excitement bubbling up through his chest. _More ice cream with Enjolras._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me SO long to write, and I am SO sorry for that and for how short it's ended up regardless... but in my defense I instead learned how to waltz properly for this and danced around with my cat to a bunch of songs trying to find one with the proper vibe. So yeah. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed! If you did, drop some kudos/comments or shoot me a message or ask on [Tumblr](https://catstrophysics.tumblr.com/). Next chapter is... eventful, to say the least ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A misunderstanding... hopefully.

Pushing through the front door with one shoulder and Enjolras trailing a step behind had become second-nature, them laughing as they kicked off their shoes in unison before heading to the kitchen, still caught in a lighthearted debate about their school’s dress code and if crop tops should be banned for boys, too. (Grantaire held out a staunch “no,” citing the several cropped shirts he owned and wore on the regular, while Enjolras argued that for equality’s sake, they should be outlawed entirely.) Enjolras led the way through the house, passing through pictures pinned to the walls of Grantaire when he was younger, as well as a considerable number of paintings, mostly done by Grantaire’s own hand. 

He grimaced as he caught Enjolras looking at them, a look of amused appraisal stitched across his face, and quashed the urge to ask his opinion. 

As soon as they were seated comfortably on Grantaire’s bed, Enjolras turned to face him. 

“Grantaire.” His voice sounded far too serious for 4pm on a Friday, and a chill coursed through Grantaire’s body as he searched the depths of his blue eyes for a joke. There was none. He braced for the worst, fists tightening ever more, and he felt his fingernails digging half-moon marks into his palms. 

“We need to rehearse.” 

He burst out laughing, the tension draining from his body, and the puzzlement in the set of Enjolras’s mouth only made him laugh harder. “Oh my god,” he spluttered out between barks of laughter, “oh, god, I thought this was going to be something serious.” 

“It _is_ serious,” he said. “We’re underprepared.” 

His laughter slowed, a few aftershocks rippling giddily through his body, and he nodded. “Okay. Alright. How are we going to do this?” 

Enjolras’s expression slipped back into its normal confident realm, and he began explaining his plan, hands moving deliberately as he spoke. “We’re going to have to run through our script so far as best as we can, and in the crossfires ask each other whatever questions we can to throw ourselves off. Questions don’t have to be related, but we have to spin the answer back around to privatization of prisons.” 

“ _Any_ questions?” A list of suggestions was already filtering through his head, ranging from the mundane—do you like rollercoasters?—to… much, much more intense. 

“Any questions. I start us off, and then you say your piece, so you can ask me questions first. And don’t hold back, okay?” He looked far too earnest to fathom the myriad of questions whirring through his head. 

Grantaire simply nodded, and Enjolras launched into his speech. 

He’d forgotten how intoxicating it was to watch Enjolras speak, especially when he was fired up with passion. As he slipped into his first set of points, he slid off the bed to stand on his feet and gesture even more fervently, making imploring eye contact with Grantaire as he went. Even though they’d collaborated on the script, written and edited every word together, listening to Enjolras pull the meaning from the words, turning them into something worth listening to. 

If Grantaire had any say in their grade, he’d give them full marks based solely on the artistry with which Enjolras spoke. 

Unfortunately, he didn’t, and Enjolras was drawing to the end of his introduction. And Grantaire’s mind was still completely void of real, useful questions to ask. Enjolras wrapped up, and he waited for Grantaire to ask his first question. So, he did. 

“Do you like action movies?” He held his breath, hoping Enjolras would take the bait and work with the question; the thoughtful set of his brow indicated he probably would, even as the corner of his mouth tried to twist into a grin. 

“Yes, I do like action movies, but I find their reliance on the imprisonment of supposed _villains_ ,” he added air-quotes to the word, completely deadpan, “only adds to the culture of unnecessary incarceration that is rampant in the United States and has led to the supposed need for privatized prisons in the first place. To really write a good action movie, it should focus on fight dynamics, rather than individuals getting their comeuppance—which sometimes they don’t deserve, and are just a scapegoat for the protagonist’s hypermasculine tendencies.” 

Grantaire swooned internally, before firing off another question. “Opinion on pickles?”

Again, he answered straightforwardly, but he couldn’t keep the small smile off of his face this time. “Pickles are an industrious food that can be easily mass-produced with little to no nutritional value, and despite their pleasant flavour they are not in any way a staple part of a diet. However,” the tiniest flicker of doubt edged into his eyes, and Grantaire could tell he was making up the next part, “their prominence as a part of the diet of inmates in private prisons is another point that demonstrates that privatized prisons have no regard for the wellbeing of their prisoners, and focus on punishment rather than reducing the recidivism rate through rehabilitation.” 

He gave him a thumbs-up, cataloguing away that answer for the real debate. Enjolras stuck his tongue out at him, and he fought the urge to giggle at the uncharacteristically childish response. 

“Trans rights?” He was scraping the bottom of the barrel of weird, not-overly-personal questions to ask. 

“Trans rights,” Enjolras repeated solemnly, before sitting back down on the bed beside Grantaire. “What the _hell_ were those questions, Grantaire?” 

_Uh._ “You said to try to throw you off, and you still managed to restate all of our points that support the argument _against_ the privatization of prisons, which—”

“Isn’t even our argument, _oh my god_ ,” he said, and smushed his face down in his hands. “I—sorry, I got… distracted by something, I swear I know what our topic is, okay?” 

Grantaire patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, and Enjolras leaned ever-so-slightly into the touch. “It’s alright, man, you try to throw me off now, okay?” He wasn’t planning on standing up, but Enjolras appeared to be waiting for him to do so, so he surreptitiously wiped his palms off on his jeans and stood up before stumbling into his own monologue. 

It was nowhere near as artful as Enjolras’s speaking, repeating words and leaving pauses between thoughts to regroup himself. His hands stayed by his side, stick-straight, and yet Enjolras didn’t look annoyed at all; rather, he appeared enthralled, eyebrows crinkling and raising with the flow of Grantaire’s speech. 

He finished quickly, and braced himself for Enjolras’s questions. 

“How specifically would privatizing prisons in other parts of the nation improve the economy?” _Damn_ , it was a genuinely good question, and Grantaire babbled something half-coherent (to him) regarding statistics on the economy in Arizona and the number of people who were employed solely through the privatized prison system. 

Enjolras nodded along as he talked, before asking a tiny follow-up question about the specifics of the employment of privatized prison employees. Again, Grantaire choked out most of an answer, but found himself focusing more intently on the indent Enjolras’s teeth were furrowing in his full lower lip. 

“Okay, great job!” Enjolras commended, before switching places with him, clasping his hand solidly in his. “One more round, I think? Or if you feel alright, I can just go, because you _didn’t_ mess up the topic of the entire presentation.” He smiled ruefully, before launching headlong into his second speech.

Grantaire largely tuned out what he was actually saying; he knew all of it, anyways, and it was heaven to just let the cadence of Enjolras’s voice wash over him in warm, comforting waves, the dance-like motion of his hands and shoulders as he spoke as easy to watch as the professional ballerinas at his old studio. 

He let himself try to come up with an actual question, this time, and only snapped back into listening to Enjolras’s words, not his flow, when he paused. 

“Sorry,” he said, “do you mind standing up? I feel weird talking straight down to you, like this, and we’ll be standing face-to-face with ‘Ferre and Courf, and I just… do you mind?” Grantaire heaved himself up off of the bed and situated himself arms-length away from Enjolras, who gave him a grateful quirk of the lips and launched back into speaking. 

He was even more entrancing like this, angelic, almost, his hair halfway glowing in the light from Grantaire’s desk lamp. Grantaire got it, then, the vision that Enjolras and his tiny, budgetless social justice club could change the world, because like this he would follow him anywhere. 

Even if anywhere was just to the auditorium for yet another long, overly-detailed presentation written by Combeferre and presented by Enjolras, with their friends on stage mostly for moral support. 

Enjolras’s tone hitched, tightening and turning even more demanding as he concluded. There was an infinite, breathless pause between them as Enjolras waited for his question that wouldn’t come. His eyes flickered away from Grantaire’s, ticking downwards, and the most uncertainty he’d ever seen in Enjolras’s blue eyes turned the calm blue to a deeper, stormier colour. 

Grantaire leaned forward quickly, before his thoughts could catch up to the impulse coursing through his body, and pressed his lips to Enjolras’s. 

Enjolras didn’t react. 

_Enjolras didn’t react,_ and Grantaire stumbled away from him, the backs of his knees hitting the edge of the bed and he sunk down to sit, ears ringing as his blood pounded too hard through his whole body. 

Enjolras stood there, still, and Grantaire’s mouth launched into a fervent apology. 

“I’m so sorry, I just… No, scratch that, um, can we pretend this never happened, and I never did _that_ because it’s really obvious that that was, um. Unwanted, and I can drive you home now, yeah, let’s um. Let’s go, Apollo, get your stuff.” And with that he hustled out of his bedroom, ignoring Enjolras saying his name softly, instead taking the barely-touched teacups off of the nightstand to empty them in the sink and allow himself a few blessed moments of self-flagellation before Enjolras reappeared. 

It was a mistake. That much he knew for sure. The shock that played through Enjolras’s eyes as he stepped back, how he’d stood there, unreactive. He set the saucers down on the counter with a clatter. “I’ll be in the car, meet me out there,” he called back to the bedroom, pulling his shoes back on before shoving his keys in his pocket and swinging the front door open, escaping to the car despite the cloud of anxiety following him and ensuring that escape was most likely futile. 

The silence in the car crushed in on his ears from all sides, heavy and thick, and he slapped blindly at the power button for the radio, heaving a sigh of relief as the heady strains of a guitar rang out. 

“Remind me to never, ever let impulse tell me what to do,” he said to the silence, and chuckled half-manically. His fingers tapped out an erratic rhythm on the steering wheel as he considered the options. One, he could talk to Enjolras, explain what happened, be honest. This was the option the tiny voice of Éponine in the back of his mind approved of: good communication. But he’d never been one for that, preferring to shelter behind sarcasm and jokes, so option two: say nothing, pretend nothing had happened, and crush his feelings away until the project was over and he could wallow in sadness with a carton of raspberry ice cream. 

Just as he’d come to his conclusion, a shadow fell across the passenger-side window, and Enjolras opened the door to get in. 

“Grantaire, I—” he attempted, but Grantaire turned the radio up louder, and he broke off quickly. 

The drive to Enjolras’s house passed all too slowly, and Grantaire’s heart nearly thudded out of his chest as he staunchly avoided making eye contact with Enjolras, whose eyes he could feel boring holes in the side of his head. 

_Say nothing,_ he reminded himself. _Pretend it never happened._ His heart clenched as he turned into Enjolras’s neighborhood, not a word having broken the clammer of rock music the whole ride. 

“See you Monday,” Enjolras said as Grantaire pulled into his driveway. “And, uh, thanks for the ride.” He gave him a vague, sad smile before getting out, and didn’t turn around before disappearing into the house. 

The pride flag, mounted alongside the dozens from world countries above the garage, waved. Grantaire felt like it was mocking him.

***

>>you: _Ép, I fucked up_  
>>you: _pretty bad_  
>>you: _can I come over?_

>>eponine: _get over here dumbass_  
>>eponine: _tell me everything_

>>you: _you’re the best, be there in 5_

He closed out of the message and switched to his one with Enjolras, typing out _hey i just wanted to apologize again, i know you’re not interested and it was wayyy too forward of me, let’s just focus on the debate_ , before staring at it, blinking, deleting it, and cramming his phone back into his pocket with a sigh. Time to go to Éponine’s. 

She was standing outside when he pulled in, Gavroche behind her ostensibly playing some sort of game on a smartphone. 

“Oh, honey,” she said as he got out, and pulled him into a hug. Gavroche made a vaguely sympathetic noise before Grantaire heard the front door open and shut from where he’d buried his face in Éponine’s hair. 

She guided him into her bedroom at the slow, shuffling pace of two people trying not to break a hug, and plopped him down in a beanbag chair. 

“I kissed him, Ép,” he began, and tried to go on, tried to dig up something more to say, but there was nothing left. 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” He fiddled with a stray strand on the carpet. 

“Did he…?” She gestured vaguely at him, hand waving, and he shook his head, the sense-memory of Enjolras board-stiff in front of him bringing a pang of _something_ cold and sharp to his heart. 

“Didn’t move.”

“Oh.”

She slid off the bed and onto the floor to lean against the beanbag with him, head resting lightly on his shoulder. They didn’t say much of anything, then, just sat in silence as Grantaire’s mind and heart spun at a thousand miles an hour. 

His fingers itched to text Enjolras something, _anything_. 

He didn’t. 

When the sky outside her window finally started to darken towards dusk, and they’d said almost nothing for two hours, she poked him gently in the side, and he turned to look. 

“It’s got to be a misunderstanding, R. I’ve… I’ve seen how he looks at you. I’d kill to have someone look at me like that.” She paused, grinning sadly. “Talk to him, sort things out, and for God’s sake, don’t apologize a million times.” With that, she shepherded him back out of the house quietly, deposited him in his car—he’d forgotten to lock it before, and thanked whatever force was looking out for him, even now, that it hadn’t been broken into—and, with a last squeeze of his shoulder, retreated back inside. 

_I should call Enjolras,_ he thought. 

He didn’t call Enjolras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch, y'all... just ouch. Don't worry, happy ending is coming, but for now? Ouch! 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments! I also somehow managed to forget the entire existence of chapter 8 of this fic, and wrote all of this chapter convinced I was on that number, so that's fun and sexy. 
> 
> Random chapter shoutout goes to lupercales/sunlssgrden! Thanks for yelling with me, dude, and I'm sorry about the mild pain this chapter might cause. 
> 
> I’m [here](https://catstrophysics.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, please come by and send me nonsense!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get better. Slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A world of thanks to @sunlssgrden on Tumblr; couldn't have done this one without you.

Dr. Mabeuf’s room felt choked with tension, stifling and cold. Or maybe that was just Grantaire, nerves buzzing after a weekend of typing out messages just to delete them and replaying the press of his lips on Enjolras’s, the shock etched into those bright blue eyes, the pressing, drowning silence in the car driving him home. 

He had to sit with him, of course, had to walk across the classroom with his legs numb and Enjolras’s wide eyes looking just past him. Courfeyrac looked between the two of them rapidly, eyes searching, but fortunately before he could ask what was the matter Combeferre adjusted his glasses and let forth a barrage of questions. 

“How much did you two get done this weekend? Courfeyrac and I didn’t do much, just ran through our parts a handful of times, and we should _really_ get together today after the meeting to all try to put it together, I mean, it’s due Thursday, after all.” He sat back, flipping open his laptop and frowning at the screen, half-waiting for someone to answer. 

“Uh.” _Eloquent, R._ He tried again, clearing his throat. “Uh, Enjolras and I got through our parts, and practiced the crossfire, but if you all want—”

“We need to work more.” Enjolras cut him off short, eyes trained anywhere but Grantaire’s. “I’m fine with working after the meeting if you lot are.” Courfeyrac and Combeferre nodded, and Grantaire found Enjolras’s gaze on him for the first time in days. “Grantaire?” 

He felt his consciousness get caught up in Enjolras for a moment before the guilt hit him, and he nodded and dropped his eyes. “Works by me, should we meet up at someone’s house?” 

Courfeyrac raised a finger. “Mine works. Rides?” 

Combeferre grabbed onto his finger, whispering, “dibs,” before looking expectantly at Enjolras. “Assume you want to go with R?” 

His cheeks reddened, and he opened his mouth as if to disagree, but closed it with a snap. “Yeah, I do.” 

_What?_ He tried to catch Enjolras’s eye, but he’d busied himself with digging through his bag, and Grantaire looked away with a heavy sigh caught in his throat. Éponine raised an eyebrow at him before digging out her phone. His pocket buzzed a moment later. 

>>eponine: _fucking. talk to him._

She was, objectively, right, but the shock that had cut through Enjolras’s expression on Friday night hung in his mind, and he shook his head at her. She pulled a face, and typed more. 

>>eponine: _talk to him or i will_  
>>eponine: _yes thats a threat_

He let out the sigh, switching his phone off and shoving it away. His head felt full of water, heavy and unwieldy, and distantly he noted he was probably going to start crying. With a start, he shook his head, forcing the tears down. Dr. Mabeuf had scribbled “STUDY HALL” on the board in his large, blocky handwriting, and Grantaire shoved in earbuds before retreating into the deepest corner of his mind to think. 

About Enjolras. 

And how badly he’d fucked up. 

His self-pity started to run wild, and he crushed it away. 

Then his heart started to pound more. 

_God,_ and the meeting was today, that’s why they were getting together afterwards, and he’d broken a perfectly beautiful budding friendship into a thousand crystalline pieces in a split second. With his lips. There was irony in there somewhere, but the leaden weight in his chest couldn’t be bothered to find it. 

Somehow he made it through the period, half-thinking about the Spanish homework due that day and thinking much more intensely about the awkward silence that would fall between him and Enjolras, how he’d have to avoid the ABC meeting that day—just like before, because he’d fucked everything up. Again. 

_Ah, hell._

***

He skipped lunch that day; sitting inches away from Enjolras was a form of self-torture he’d rather stay away from. He’d been planning to go to the library, bury himself in drawing where no one would think to look for him, but instead his feet took him to the dance room. Against his will or not, as he dropped his bag by the door a much greater weight than that of the textbooks and papers he’d been carrying seemed to lift off his shoulders.

Today was not a day for dancing yet, and instead he reached for the toe of his left shoe and pulled it up behind him, tight fibers in his thighs complaining as he did. That’s what he got for skipping stretching all weekend, letting his body adjust to a state of semi-stupor as he wallowed. 

He’d been holding his breath, and let it out in one big burst as he switched legs. His ankle wobbled precariously, the first time his balance had faltered that badly in months, and he gasped as he caught himself as a flash of annoyance sparked. 

“Fuck _everything,_ ” he growled, readjusting, grabbing the arch of his foot more tightly and pulling harder, ignoring the protest in his hip and back. “I’m just _stretching_ , damn it.” 

With a wince, he forced the stretch deeper, and let out a surprised noise as his leg gave out fully. 

Someone by the door gasped, and as pain shot up his spine through his tailbone he heard the patter of running feet. 

“Oh my God, Grantaire, are you okay? I’d come looking for you, you weren’t at lunch and I worried.” Enjolras’s warm hand wrapped around his bicep, and he looked up dazedly from the floor into concerned blue eyes. 

_Whatever force was working against him now, throwing Enjolras and his good-natured, caring self into Grantaire’s messy life, must really have it out for him._

“I’m _fine_ , it happens all the time, and why were you worried? I thought—” 

“Grantaire, for five seconds, please just let me take care of you? Make sure you’re okay? That you didn’t shatter your coccyx or something?” 

“Coccyx?” It sounded Combeferre-esque, one of the words he’d throw out with the assumption everyone else had been reading medical journals since they were five but would only really land with Joly. 

“Your ass, do I need to point it out to you? Now come on, get up,” he said, grasping Grantaire’s arm more firmly to pull him up. 

They ended up face-to-face as Grantaire stood, legs unsteady and heart pounding out of his chest as he processed the last ten seconds. “Is it broken, Doctor Apollo?” he asked, the familiar, teasing lilt slipping back into his voice as he tossed out the nickname. “Did I break my ass?” 

Enjolras ignored him. “You’re too good of a dancer to go out like that, ‘Taire,” he said. “I was worried.” He squeezed Grantaire’s elbow absently, and the nickname made his head spin. _’Taire?_

He repeated it aloud. “You’ve never called me ‘Taire before,” he noted with as much unconcern in his voice as he could muster. 

Enjolras reddened, dropping his hands and stepping back. “I just thought—never mind, it’s nothing. You’ll be late for class if you don’t hurry, I’ll see you later, _Gran_ taire.” He backed through the door, gone in a flash, leaving Grantaire breathless in his wake. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to jump on the nickname. 

Today was not his day.

***

He made it through the rest of the day, somehow, head full of thunderclouds as he floated from class to class with Éponine resignedly promising to lend him her notes. And somehow, again, he made it into the meeting, slouched over in the desk the furthest from Enjolras, bag on the top with his arms crossed over it as an added barrier between him and the blond at the other side of the room, brow furrowed as he scribbled something down.

Jehan and Éponine swung through the door and settled down behind him, Éponine, taking one appraising look at him with his chin set determinedly atop his folded arms, ruffled his hair before taking her seat. Everyone trickled in slowly, in laughing pairs or triplets, slowly taking seats in a ragged arc around the desk at the end with Enjolras perched atop it. The clock stuck 3:10, and Feuilly slid through the door at the last second, collapsing into the chair next to Bahorel with a _thud._

Enjolras’s eyes swept around the room quickly, a searchlight silencing them all and taking count of those present. A few trailing murmurs from Marius died out with the promise to finish his story for Cosette later. 

The meeting passed normally, nearly painfully uneventfully, steeped in procedural nonsense and reminders of why Grantaire had left in the first place. He’d have felt that nothing was out of place, besides the sick knot in the pit of his stomach. 

It wasn’t helped much by the fact that Enjolras kept staring at him. 

It wasn’t _staring,_ exactly, more just that his eyes drifted over to Grantaire more than they usually did, and there something heavy behind them at direct odds with his casual, if brusque, tone. 

He wanted to leave. He shouldn’t have come at all, should have gone home and met up at Courfeyrac’s house later, avoided the meeting, avoided _Enjolras_. But he hadn’t, and he was here, and his heartbeat thudded in his ears far too loudly when Enjolras refused to break eye contact as he carried on about a bake sale they were planning to support a local food bank. 

A noble cause, and he’d probably be roped into making posters for it, but for now it made the whirling in his head louder, so he tucked his face down in his arms and shut out the noise. 

He must’ve fallen asleep, somehow, because he blinked awake to a gentle hand shaking his shoulder. 

“Mmm?” he asked, lights dazzling his sleep-heavy eyes. “Mmm,” he added when the shapes around him resolved into Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras. “Hmm.” Then he registered that the hand was Enjolras’s, squeezing his arm gently, and he pulled back, sitting up away from his bag in a flash. “Oh. Sorry, y’all, we should. We should go? Courfeyrac, address?” 

“Texted it to you,” Courfeyrac said. “Meet you both there in 20?” 

He and Combeferre disappeared through the door with a wave and interlaced fingers, and Grantaire could feel Enjolras’s eyes on him. 

“Shall we?” 

He swallowed hard. “Yeah, okay. You know where to go.” He stuck a hand in his backpack to rummage for the keys, and instead of heading for the door Enjolras pulled over the chair Éponine had been sitting in and sat down. 

Grantaire staunchly ignored the blond boy, despite his elbows on the edge of the desk and the distinctly citrussy way he smelled wafted over the space between them. How’d he do that, anyways, smell like sunshine and determination? He turned his shoulder slightly but pointedly against Enjolras. It didn’t help with the ignoring at all.

“Can we talk first?” Concern flickered across his face for a heartbeat. 

Grantaire didn’t answer, and Enjolras soldiered on. 

“I feel like—Are you mad at me? You haven’t talked to me all day and you’re still not looking at me, even now, ‘Taire, come _on_ —”

“Since when have you called me ‘Taire?” he snapped, standing up with his keys in hand. “We can talk in the car, or whatever, but we shouldn’t leave them waiting.” 

He stood, waiting for Enjolras to join him for a moment, before leading the way to the parking lot. Inside, his heart pounded, and the mostly-empty hallway stretching towards the outside loomed before him, miles of walking too close to Enjolras and trying—failing—to not walk too close to Enjolras. 

Goddamn it. _Goddamn it._ Enjolras still didn’t reciprocate how he felt, this was just his ridiculous moral compass telling him to apologize, telling him to use that _nickname_ —

“Let’s go, then.” Enjolras slid his bag off his shoulder to pull out his phone as they walked, typing with one hand as they went. His knuckles bumped Grantaire’s hand as he swung his bag back up, and they flinched apart. 

He unlocked the car from a few yards away, the telltale _ka-thunk_ of the doors unlocking making his shoulders twitch. Maps said that Courfeyrac’s house was 19 minutes away; just under 20 minutes of sitting in a car with Enjolras. 

Doable. Mostly. 

As soon as they were both in the car, the engine rumbling softly as he re-entered Courfeyrac’s address, Enjolras put his hand on Grantaire’s lightly and squeezed. 

“‘Taire,” he began, before Grantaire cut him off. 

“I’m so sorry.” The apology tumbled from his lips in a rush. “I shouldn’t have kissed you like that, you weren’t—you don’t—it’s okay, we don’t ever have to talk about it again, it was a mistake.” He paused again, weighted and thick. “I’m sorry.” 

Enjolras gave him a quizzical look, hard-set eyebrows that softened once he saw the panic on Grantaire’s face. “Can we talk about it again?” 

_No, never, I’ll leave you alone, I promise,_ drifted through his mind, but “sure” came out of his mouth instead. “Say whatever you want, I guess.” 

“We should start driving, don’t want to keep them waiting,” he said, pulling his hand away. Grantaire had nearly forgotten it was there, and the absence of it made his skin feel cold. He obliged, the robotic voice from his phone instructing him to turn left. As she fell silent, Enjolras spoke again. “I’d never… I froze.” 

He laughed dryly. “Yeah, you did. Good realization.” He tightened his hands on the steering wheel, pressing the brake slowly as they pulled up to a stoplight. 

Enjolras ran a hand through his hair. “I froze because I’d never, you know, with anyone before? Like, that was my first.” His ears blushed bright red. “That’s all, I just. That’s why I froze. Not that I’m not… I’m not…” He trailed off. 

Grantaire swallowed hard. The light flipped to green, and as he leaned on the accelerator he felt rather like his heart was flying ahead of the car, flitting dangerously on the edge of something. _Might as well jump._ “You… I was your first?” 

Enjolras nodded gently. 

“I’m even sorrier, God, what was I _thinking_ —” 

“Gran _taire_.” He froze mid-sentence. “I liked it. I _really_ liked it, and I would like to do it again sometime, if you don’t regret it?” His voice had gotten quieter as he talked, trailing off into a question and leaving Grantaire the floor. 

For his part, his head was reeling, and were he not driving his head would be between his knees, possibly taking deep breaths in a paper bag. Instead, his knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. He didn’t look at Enjolras; he _couldn’t_ look at Enjolras without tearing his eyes away from the road. 

“Are you saying… me? You liked me?” It took all his resolve not to turn and look, search for a joke hidden in blue eyes, but he couldn’t. The lady in the GPS announced a right turn coming up, and he flicked on his turn signal. 

His heart fluttered with hope, tiny butterflies pounding against his ribs. “Liked, still like?” 

“It’s been, like, four days, Grantaire, not much can change in that time frame.” 

“Oh.” 

The energy in the car changed, a quick flip that glowed between them. Wordlessly, Grantaire watched Enjolras’s hand slip into his peripheral vision, and cautiously took it, squeezing lightly as Enjolras didn’t flinch away. 

“Okay?” he asked, eyes flicking from the road. 

“Okay.”

The thudding of his heart slowed down steadily as the distance to Courfeyrac’s shortened, Enjolras’s hand warm and steady in his own. He wanted to scream. No, laugh. No, grab Enjolras tightly and spin him around, _and_ laugh. And panic more. _Had they actually resolved the issue? Were they_ together? _Damn._ Grantaire deemed “as they bump into Courfeyrac’s driveway” far too late to ask this, but their hands were still together and Combeferre leaned against the porch railing, eyebrow cocked. They had a long evening of work ahead, and Grantaire’s fingers tingled as Enjolras laced them back together as they made their way up the front walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me altogether too long to get written how I liked it, but the muse is a bitch and doesn't like stressful times so they wandered away. But hey, chapter's here, mostly queer, and not going anywhere. Poor Grantaire, y'all, still doesn't know where he stands with Enjolras. Full disclosure, this chapter and therefore the subsequent ones deviated from my original outline, but I didn't want to write 2000 more words of them not talking. As always, kudos, comments, DMs on Tumblr, and carrier pigeons are greatly appreciated and enthusiastically answered with my own return pigeon, so come talk to me! Send all carrier pigeons to [me on Tumblr](https://catstrophysics.tumblr.com/), or my sideblog for fic-related updates [catstrophysics-fics](https://catstrophysics-fics.tumblr.com/) that I really regret not calling catstroFICsics.
> 
> And like... shoutout to @JadesLocke17, yeehaw.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

He was drenched to the skin. Somehow, the rain made it through a jean jacket, a sweatshirt, _and_ a t-shirt, and tiny puddles gathered around his ankles as he dialed in the combination to his locker. He swung the door shut after shoving a battered copy of Othello into his backpack, and Courfeyrac’s grinning face popped into view. 

“Hey, R,” he said, singsong. “Hold any hands lately?” He cocked his eyebrows in exactly the way that told Grantaire he’d seen them outside his house, fingers laced together until Combeferre greeted them and Enjolras’s hand had jumped away. 

Technically, then, yes, he’d held a hand recently, but Enjolras barely met his eyes the rest of the night and—the memory of Enjolras’s hand brushing his arm as they switched seats while practicing flashed through his mind again. 

Grantaire snorted. “Barely.” He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt back, rubbing cold hands through his hair to shake out the water. Courfeyrac stepped back from the spray nonchalantly. 

“Hmm.” He pulled his phone out, swiping into some notification and typing away quickly. “Figured you’d be a little more hyped, considering the circumstances,” he said, still not looking at Grantaire. 

His stomach twisted as what he meant registered. “We’re not together.” 

“Oh.” 

Silence fell between them, as silent as a locker bay before class began could be. 

“You sure?” Courfeyrac asked, “I mean, holding hands? You kissed him?” 

His blood turned to ice and the memory came back, quick and sharp. “You know about that?” He’d only told Éponine, and then the conversation yesterday with Enjolras but Courfeyrac hadn’t been present for that. _Did Enjolras tell him? Of_ _course_ _Enjolras had told his best friends, of course he had mentioned that someone kissed him, that Grantaire kissed him._

“That was once, and we didn’t… discuss anything, I guess. Too busy with the project.” 

Courfeyrac shook his head. “Definitely not too busy. Combeferre and I are doing just fine, and we’re in the same project as you.” 

As if on cue, Combeferre stepped in out of the rain, shaking the droplets from a grey umbrella. He flashed a blindingly happy grin at Courfeyrac, and strode over to join them. 

“Telling him about Enj,” Courfeyrac said lowly, and Combeferre nodded. Then he fixed Grantaire with a hard stare. 

“Ask him out. He won’t do it himself.” 

Grantaire choked. 

“I’m serious!” Combeferre said, voice rising just a little too loud for the echoey hallway, and a few students turned to look. “Look, we have class in ten minutes, just… talk to him before we all run through the debate again. We’re in great shape, given last night, just… c’mon, R. Talk to him. _Tell_ him, we all saw you two yesterday.” With a nod off towards the chemistry lab, Combeferre headed away, and Courfeyrac mouthed _talk to him_ once more. 

Enjolras leaned against the wall just outside Dr. Mabeuf’s room, nose tucked in a book and hair loose around his shoulders. Alone. 

_Talk to him._

Grantaire did not, in fact, talk to him, and instead walked in the opposite direction until he was out of his sightline, watching over his shoulder in case Enjolras looked up and saw him. The wind knocked out of him in one big huff as he ran into a solid body, bouncing off and nearly falling. 

“Damn! R! You good?” Bossuet’s carefree, cheerful voice snapped him into reality, Joly beside him and stepping forward between them. 

“No injuries,” he affirmed, before moving to stand just off Bossuet’s shoulder. “Hey, Grantaire.” 

“Hey, sorry, just…” he searched for the word for a second, but found nothing. “Confused.” 

“Enjolras?” asked Bossuet, and Grantaire’s jaw dropped. 

Joly nodded earnestly. “Courfeyrac told us about you two outside his house, is everything alright?” 

He sighed in annoyance, and stuck one hand in the pocket of his jacket. To his dismay, the denim was still wet, and it squished unpleasantly under his hand. “Does _everyone_ know about that?” The look that passed between the boys was enough. “Never mind,” he muttered. The warning bell rang. “I’m gonna get to class, see you at lunch.” 

“Go get ‘im, R!” Bossuet called, and Grantaire almost caught himself smiling as he pushed through the door, past the spot Enjolras had left conspicuously empty next to the doorframe. Jehan gestured to him from their customary corner, and he obliged, leaning between two wall-hanging plants. 

He accepted the proffered poppy seed muffin—Jehan could bake like no one’s business—as his friend gave him a once-over. 

“You haven’t talked to Enjolras yet, then,” they stated with a bite of another muffin. 

“How the hell do you know about that, too?” A clap of thunder sounded outside, and Jehan startled briefly. 

“Cosette, Marius told her and we send each other crocheting tips sometimes, she mentioned it last night.” 

Grantaire sat down roughly, and his jeans vacuumed their cold, wet fabric to his legs. He winced. “Who _doesn’t_ know about this? I mean, seriously.” 

Jehan grinned widely. “Pretty sure Enjolras doesn’t,” they sing-songed, to which Grantaire stood up heavily. 

“Fine.” 

Just across the room, close enough that he could see the furrow in his brow as he read, was Enjolras. He wove between the desks, nearly tripping over his own feet a few times—when did he become so clumsy?—and took the chair next to the boy, who flipped his book shut with a snap. Grantaire turned to read the cover, cocking an eyebrow as he did. 

“The Communist Manifesto? Really, Apollo?” He’d expected something similar, but to see it laying in faded red before him felt as comical as Enjolras’s halfhearted scowl at the nickname. Then, he noticed Enjolras’s shirt and hair were fully dry, and a spark of awestruck irritation jolted through him. “And you’re not even wet? How the hell did you get in here today without getting rained on?” As if to punctuate his point, another rumble of thunder sounded outside. 

“ _Yes,_ the Communist Manifesto, and I got here early to work something out with Dr. Mabeuf.” He gave Grantaire an appraising look, and it felt as though he lingered just a second too long. “Hmm.” 

The air between them crackled throughout the entire period as Dr. Mabeuf carried on with the lesson—he’d stopped giving them time to work in class, citing that they ought to be almost done by now and he needed to teach them something about a constitutional democracy—and Grantaire barely listened. He should have, considering the test had been scheduled for the following week, but it felt safer to listen to the rain pattering outside and try to ignore the presence of Enjolras diligently taking notes at his elbow. 

“Take care, ‘Taire,” Enjolras said as the room began to quickly empty. Grantaire nodded, watching his eyes for anything at all, and found only carefully guarded blue. 

Next class was no better, and the weather outside seemed designed to lull everyone to sleep as it drummed steadily on the roof. Grantaire kept track of who all asked him if he’d spoken to Enjolras yet: Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Bossuet, Joly, Jehan, and Feuilly and Bahorel added themselves to the list in one fell swoop between classes, each grabbing him by a shoulder and asking “Are you dating?” in near-perfect unison. 

Frankly, he was tired of it by lunch, and snagged Enjolras by the elbow just before he entered the cafeteria. Enjolras turned around, mouth open to snap, then his face softened. “Oh. Hey, Grantaire.” 

“Can I talk to you about something?” he blurted. “Now-ish, please?” Enjolras frowned slightly but nodded, and continued through the door of the cafeteria. “No, no, no,” Grantaire added, “er, somewhere else?” 

“Outside?” The puzzlement was obvious in his voice, but he gestured with his head towards the end of the hallway. “Quieter.” 

Grantaire eyed the window, rain still falling in sheets off the awning and splashing on the concrete, but nevertheless said “sure,” and set off. 

They walked down the hallway, what felt to be miles of industrially-tiled floor stretching out lined with faded blue lockers. Shoulder-to-shoulder. Grantaire chanced a glance at Enjolras and caught him doing the exact same, staring intently at him as they walked in step. 

“I—” Enjolras cut himself off, gaze dropping sharply. “May I?” His fingers twitched towards Grantaire’s own, and Grantaire’s eyes flicked down, nodding imperceptibly. 

Their fingers met as they walked the last few feet to the door, twisting together slowly, and the breath caught in Grantaire’s throat as they stopped at the door. With their unoccupied hands, each reached for the handle, then pulled back abruptly as they realized. “Sorry,” Enjolras said through a laugh, “I’ll get it?” He swung the door open and nodded Grantaire through into the chilly, pouring rain. Grantaire leaned back against the wall, a halfhearted attempt at nonchalance, and Enjolras stood just in front of him. 

“So,” he began. “About… this.” He gestured between them with his free hand. “Are we… y’know…” 

“Together?” Enjolras finished, and Grantaire’s heart leapt through his chest at the word. “I…” he paused, watching Grantaire intently. “I’d like that, I think.” 

He tightened his grip on Enjolras’s warm hand. “With me?” The words came out quiet, tentative, bleeding into the sound of the rain. 

Enjolras grinned, the smile spreading slowly across his face, and sunshine poured out into the rainy afternoon. “Yeah, ‘Taire, with you.” Then, far less cautiously than before, he took Grantaire’s other hand in his own, turning it over to trace down the palm with a tentative finger. 

“Hey, Apollo,” Grantaire began, and a devilish, flying smile lit up his face. “You ever kissed anyone in the rain before?” With that, he swung himself and Enjolras out past the awning and let the rain pour onto them, running in chilly rivulets from their hair. 

He pulled him in slowly, one hand sliding to his hip, and this time Enjolras didn’t pull away. He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner Grantaire’s mouth, lips wet with raindrops, and Grantaire leaned up to catch him properly. A giddy laugh rose up in his chest as they stood, halfway intertwined, in the pouring rain. They broke apart, breathing hard—from kissing or from adrenaline, it wasn’t quite obvious. 

“Guess now I can say I have,” Enjolras said, panting slightly. “Kissed someone in the rain, that is.” Grantaire broke out laughing, clutching a hand into his red sweatshirt. 

“Goddamn, Apollo.” 

Enjolras frowned as he raised a hand to brush a stray lock of shaggy brown hair off of Grantaire’s forehead. “You never answered why you call me that, you know.” 

“Apollo?” 

He nodded, then wrapped his arm more tightly around Grantaire’s waist. 

“I… the Greek god Apollo. God of harmony, light, and subject of basically all of the top ten hottest nude male statues in Italy. You’re just Apollo.” 

Enjolras blinked at him, and a raindrop tumbled off his eyelashes. “Apollo of the numerous ill-fated gay love affairs,” he deadpanned. Then his face turned contemplative. “Y’know, you’d said you’d teach me how to dance after last week,” he said, “and we haven’t had time.” 

“We have time now.” He readjusted, one hand in Enjolras’s own and the other on his hip. “You remember this much?” Enjolras copied his motions exactly, resting a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, and nodded. “Afraid my phone’s inside, so we’re freestyling.” 

Then they were dancing, albeit clumsily, in the parking lot of the school, as Grantaire hummed the tune of the only waltz he could remember. _one-two-three_ repeated in his head, half-guiding Enjolras through the rain and half-staring in awe at the top of Enjolras’s head, cheek resting easily on his shoulder as they danced. 

“You’re so good at this, ‘Taire,” he mumbled, and a goofy smile crept onto his lips. “Wanted to ask you for so long.” 

Grantaire steered them away from a particularly large puddle before asking, “what?”

“Together. Us. Y’know, all that.” 

It felt like too much to respond with words, so Grantaire simply hummed his assent and they carried on, swaying and stepping through the droplets still coming down. The world felt calm around them, the cozy grey sky heavy above them and secreting away their moment from the rest of the world. 

Grantaire let his memory work, engraving the sensation of Enjolras warm against his chest and the rain drizzling down on them into his psyche forever. Maybe it would be enough to last, but really, it wouldn’t need to. 

Just then, Enjolras lifted his head from its resting place against Grantaire’s collarbone. “I really hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we still have the debate to work on, and… should probably eat something if we’re going to work today after school.” He frowned. “We are going to work today after school, right?” 

He rubbed his thumb over Enjolras’s knuckles. “Could work. Or could do something much more fun, like go to the arcade that Feuilly mans the desk at and I beat you at Pac-Man.” Enjolras looked as though he were about to refuse, but Grantaire broke in again: “We’re doing just fine with the project, we can work Wednesday-day and night, and even Combeferre thinks we’re fine to take tonight off.” 

Enjolras’s eyebrows lifted, and his eyes lit up. “So… come home with me?” 

Grantaire laughed, and leaned forward on an impulse to kiss Enjolras on the forehead, just between his brows. “If you like.” 

“Can we rehearse our part just the once?” he bargained. The soft pleading glint that overtook his eyes won Grantaire over, and he nodded. They froze another moment, still twisted together, and Enjolras’s expression grew regretful. “We should… go inside soon.” 

“We should.” 

They didn’t go inside, instead separating until just one hand remained together—Grantaire’s right in Enjolras’s left—and headed for the front of the school, both grinning openly. 

As they pushed through the front door of the school, double door swinging wide, and a flash of motion drew their attention. Then a gasp. 

“Oh my god, they did it!” came Courfeyrac’s shout. “We went looking for you, oh my god, I have to add you to something.” He pulled his phone out, typing excitedly, and Enjolras and Grantaire’s phones buzzed simultaneously. 

>>courfeyrac: _added you to group message OPERATION: CHRISTMAS TREE_  
>>courfeyrac: _they fucking did it, boys_

“Hey, Courf?” Grantaire called, and squeezed Enjolras’s hand in his own once. “Chat name?” 

“Look at your damn shirts,” he replied. 

_Oh._ The sound of Enjolras stifling a laugh beside him sent a plume of warmth into his chest to thaw the chill from the rain, and they really _were_ wearing Christmas colors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone who actually reads this chapter; it's been forever since I updated, and I have excuses galore, but what's more important is that it's finally done. Hope you enjoyed, and God, was them kissing in the rain in my head for a very long time. 
> 
> On a related note: I made a Discord server for exR/lowkey this fic, but mostly general exR because _them._ Join here! [hoes for enjolras Discord server](https://discord.com/invite/vERrqvA)
> 
> As always, I’m [here](https://catstrophysics.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr!

**Author's Note:**

> Added Sept. 8 2020, like five months too late: 
> 
> I'm posting this note just to say that this fic is sort of on hiatus while I deal with college applications/the general State Of The World. I love this fic dearly, and do intend to give it the ending it deserves, but that's going to be... not in the next few months. (But hey, if this stretches out too long, then we might just get a Christmas fic out of the ending, eh?)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * ["The Prom Queen"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25198705) by [French_Fork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/French_Fork/pseuds/French_Fork)




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